Destiny Doesn't Send Heralds
by Erandir
Summary: He was not sent by any god, human or elvhen. He firmly believed that this thing on his hand was merely a coincidence, an accident. It terrified him, he wished he could give it to someone else, but he would use it if he had to, if it would fix the world.
1. Conclave

_"There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that" _– Oscar Wilde

Aldaron had no idea what was happening. His hand felt like it was on fire. Green fire. Like the skin and bone were being torn apart from the inside. And worse every time that horrendous hole in the sky pulsated and sent down matching green fire from within. Desperately he tried to remember what had happened, but there was nothing. The last thing he remembered was sneaking into the temple where the mages and templars were supposed to be meeting, finding a spot to listen in without being seen. Then he woke up, manacled and chained and this thing in his hand and it hurt and surrounded by humans with swords all pointed straight at him. Then they took him outside and he saw the sky. The hole in the sky. They thought he had done this. How could he have done this? How could anyone have done this? What was that thing? What was he supposed to do?

He followed the shemlen woman blindly, certain that she would not hesitate to kill him if he so much as breathed wrong. But his hand hurt so much it sent him to his knees in the snow. She hauled him to his feet and dragged him forward, stumbling and biting back tears.

That thing in the sky. They thought he could fix it. How? He was not even a mage. He was just a hunter. Barely a hunter. Cheeks still sore from the fresh vallaslin when he left the Free Marches.

Demons. There were demons. Actual demons. He had no bow, he had no knives. He had nothing but his bare hands and one is barely useable.

Creators, please say this is all a dream. A terrible nightmare, but he will wake up back in his aravel with his clan. Anywhere but here; this frozen, desolate mountaintop surrounded by shemlen and demons, the sky torn open above him.

This is it. He's going to die.

No.

No, not like this.

Frantic. Something, anything. He would take a greatsword right now, probably couldn't lift it, but at least he would go out fighting. There, an overturned cart. They're not hunting knives but they're something. He scrambled toward them, his hand hurt so much he could barely keep his hold, but he thrust both blades out toward the demon blindly, felt them sink into flesh that wasn't flesh, it screamed and then collapsed and vanished into smoke.

He's trembling all over when the woman comes barreling toward him and it's all he can do to try and keep his voice from letting on how terrified he actually is. Don't make him face down demons unarmed.

But fighting is something he knows, and having the knives brought him a small measure of comfort. Familiarity amongst all this chaos and confusion. He was still terrified, still confused, but now at least he had a chance of not dying a horrible gruesome death. A small chance, but still a chance.

A hole in the sky. Holes in the very air. What is that thing? It made his hand hurt even more. When the flat-ear mage grabbed his wrist and thrust it toward the tear every instinct in his body screamed not to, and he tried to pull back but the mage is surprisingly strong and holds him firm. Then pain like nothing he has ever known. His hand is being torn apart. Stop, please make it stop.

When it does the hole is gone, but his hand is still throbbing with lingering pain.

"I did that?" How? The mage – Solas – explains, but Aldaron does not understand. Magic had never made any sense to him. But maybe they were right about him fixing the hole in the sky. If it is possible, he wants to. And he also does not want to, because he is terrified and in pain. But what else is there? They won't let him run away.

More shemlen, more talking. Finally he understands what happened, and maybe he remembers some of it now. An explosion, that's right. He remembers running from monsters, demons, there was a woman. And then he woke up in the manacles and now he is here. They want him to close the hole in the sky with this thing in his hand, but they can't decide how.

"You wanted to kill me a minute ago, now you're asking for my opinion?" Was this some kind of joke?

"You're the one we need to keep alive."

Alright, that made sense, but it was still a surprise. "The mountain pass," he said, because he was a coward and if there was a human army somewhere he wanted to be as far away from it as possible.

There were more demons and more holes in the air. This thing on his hand closes them, but Creators it hurts so much he can barely keep his feet.

The temple was another thing entirely. Aldaron's first glimpse stopped him dead in his tracks. This was like nothing he had ever seen before. The ground was charred black, corpses frozen in the agony of their death. He swallowed hard to keep down the nausea. What had happened here? What could do something like this? As they continue onward he heard voices. His voice. But he could not remember this, and how was it possible anyway?

The Breach was larger than any of the smaller rifts they had seen on the way here. It was massive, and the demons that came out of it were equally massive. Aldaron held his hand up toward it, staggered from the pain, dodged a demon that tried to cut him in half and tried again. He had to do this; he was the only one who could. But it hurt it hurt it hurt. Someone was screaming. Was that him?

Everything was searing pain and blinding green light.

Then everything was black.


	2. Herald

When Aldaron next woke it was somewhere warm, comfortable. At first he almost believed that it had all been a dream, but when he opened his eyes he was not back in his aravel with his clan, but an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar place. He sat up slowly, just as a strange elf came in the door. When she saw that he was awake the girl dropped what she was holding and practically fell to he knees. It startled Aldaron, and he tried to assure her that she was in no danger, but she seemed frightened of him, babbling endlessly, though he was able to get some information out of her. The Breach closed. The thing on his hand did not hurt as much, now that he thought about it. Something, at least, had gone right. But she said that was three days ago. Had he really been asleep that long? The anxious girl fled the room, saying something about Cassandra – the frightening woman who had dragged him up the mountain – and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He remembered Haven from before the conclave, and thought he knew where the Chantry was. Better go find that woman before she came in here to yell at him some more.

After a cursory look around the room Aldaron located his coat and pulled it on. He opened the door to the shack and stepped outside, then froze on the spot. There were people. Dozens of people, all crowded around as though waiting for him. A line of guards held them back, but did not make Aldaron feel any more comfortable.

Warily he stepped forward, eyed both the guards and the common folk nervously, and slowly made his way through the crowd. The people were muttering amongst themselves. He could make out the words, but little of it made any sense to him. "Herald of Andraste" they said. "Stepped out of the fade" and "Stopped the Breach." It was all very disconcerting, and did not improve when he spotted the Chantry. He had always felt uncomfortable around Chantries and Chantry sisters, always afraid they would try to convert him or get him arrested. None of the women crowded around outside stopped him from going in, however, so he pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit hall.

It was empty.

Not a soul in sight, but as he wandered forward and looked around Aldaron began to hear voices. He followed them to a room at the very back of the hall, steeled himself, then pushed open the door.

"Clap him in irons!"

Aldaron tensed, ready to run if he had to, but thankfully the guards seemed more inclined to listen to Cassandra than this priest, and she no longer seemed to want to kill him or arrest him. Thank the Creators for small blessings. He listened, nervous, wary, as they argued over what to do with him, and then Cassandra said something that shocked him to his core.

"Providence. The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour."

The Maker? The shemlen god?

"You realize I'm an elf. A Dalish elf." Aldaron had not been sent to the conclave by anyone but his Keeper, but if he had been sent by a god, it certainly would not be a human one. This did not seem to dissuade Cassandra, though. She was convinced, and so was Leliana. Aldaron understood little of the following conversation. A lot about shemlen religion, about the Breach, and something called the Inquisition. The elf did not agree with everything they said. He did not care what their religious leaders believed or ordered them to do. But their goals – bring peace, close the Breach, find and stop whoever caused it – those he agreed with whole-heartedly.

This thing on his hand, whatever it was, it seemed to be important. Right now it seemed to be the only thing that closed the rifts. It was his duty to stay, then. The Keeper had sent him only to gather information; she had not foreseen anything of this magnitude. How could she? How could anyone? Demons falling from the sky. However these people wanted to frame it, this was not a problem merely for humans, this was a problem for the whole world. Reality was coming apart at the seams, and if he could do something to help fix it, then Aldaron would.

He was not sent by any god, human or elvhen. He firmly believed that this thing on his hand was merely a coincidence, an accident. It terrified him, he wished he could give it to someone else, someone like Cassandra or Solas, someone who knew what they were doing, but he would use it if he had to, if it would fix the world.

Someone had to do something.

* * *

><p>They were calling him the Herald of Andraste. Aldaron barely knew who Andraste was. It was disconcerting. People bowed when he walked past. They stared with open awe, or open contempt. At least the contempt was something he was used to seeing from humans. A Dalish elf savage, prophet for their human god? Preposterous. If he was supposed to be a prophet Andraste or the Maker or whomever had certainly forgotten to inform him.<p>

Aldaron held no delusions of grandeur. He was well aware that he held no actual control in this Inquisition. They asked his opinion out of formality. He was little more than a symbol, a mascot. They kept him around because of this mark on his hand, the only thing they knew of that could close the rifts in the veil. That was what they needed, not Aldaron himself.

Still, now that they were no longer trying to kill or arrest him, everyone in Haven was being incredibly polite. They had given him proper weapons and new clothes. The clothes were unfamiliar and strange, but incredibly well made, comfortable, and most importantly sturdy and warm. Aldaron was not overly fond of the boots, but he was also not fond of frostbite, so he put up with them. They were more comfortable than he had expected boots to be.

When he reluctantly admitted to Josephine that he had heard some disparaging remarks about his ears said behind his back she had immediately assured him that they would be dealt with. That had shocked him. He had never met a human willing to stand up for an elf before. Usually they just turned their head and ignored it when someone said 'knife-ear'. Fumbling with his words, Aldaron tried to assure her that it was fine, that she did not need to do anything. She insisted until he backed down.

The Herald of Andraste had to be respected.

Aldaron did not want to be herald of anything.

The mark still hurt. A throbbing in the background of everything that he did. When he kept himself busy enough - running around Haven talking to people, trying to help where he could, hunting in the forest just outside the walls - he could ignore it. At night it kept him awake. Curled up in bed, cradling the limb to his chest and biting his lip to keep from crying. When there was nothing else to distract himself with there was only the pain. The mark did not look like much now, a wide scar with a green tinge, and it did not hurt as much as it had that frantic, terrifying day at the temple. It was like a thousand pins stuck in his flesh. The slightest movement made the pain flare up, and nothing made it go away entirely. Herbal salves and potions had no effect. One particularly desperate night he had shoved his entire arm up to the elbow into a drift of snow and kept it there until he could not feel his fingers. The pain of the mark had only dimmed the tiniest bit.

He needed a constant distraction, so when the heads of the Inquisition told him to go the Hinterlands (really they asked and suggested but how was he supposed to refuse?) he jumped at the opportunity.

A Dalish elf was more at home in the wilderness than in a human village. It was warmer here, out of the mountains. Aldaron took off his shoes and left them in camp despite the looks of disapproval that Cassandra gave him. He wanted to feel the dirt and the grass between his toes again.

There was some Chantry mother. That was the official reason they were here. She wanted to meet the famous Herald of Andraste and seemed to be the only Chantry official outside of Haven that did not want him dead. At least she said as much, but she also said he should go meet with the heads of the Chantry in Val Royeaux. That sounded like a horrible idea, and he said as much. But she just smiled sweetly and made her speech about duty and risk and hard decisions.

Aldaron left feeling nervous about the whole thing, and instead threw himself into the task of helping the refugees. This was familiar. Tromping through the forest, hunting, foraging, fighting. This was what Aldaron knew how to do. He understood the forest and the fighting, he did not understand human politics or human religion or holes in the sky.

There were holes here, too. Smaller rifts caused by the first breach. Closing them hurt like nothing else. The mark reacted when he drew close to one, bursting to life like it had at the temple. But the rifts closed, so he bore the ache with gritted teeth and did not let anyone see his pain.

That night while the others slept in their tents he climbed as high as he could in a tree within sight of the fire and the Inquisition scouts on guard. He stared out across the war-ravaged land. The scars where the fighting had been fiercest were obvious. Trees and grass burned out by mage fire, rocks frozen over with ice that would not melt even in the heat of midday sun. And in the distance the Breach in the sky. The conclave was supposed to end this, but nothing had changed, instead they only had more problems.

He stayed up in the tree all night, slept in brief snatches, pressed the palm of his marked hand so hard against the bark he almost drew blood.

When he finally descended from the tree as the sky started to grow light the camp was still quiet, but much to his surprise Aldaron found Varric sitting by the camp fire, polishing the wood on that strange crossbow of his. The Dwarf waved him over and Aldaron hesitated a moment before going to join him.

"So, while Cassandra isn't around to hear, how are you holding up?" Varric asked. "You go from the most wanted man in Thedas to leading the armies of the faithful. Most people would spread that out over more than a day."

Aldaron was surprised to find sympathy for his situation from a dwarf. Or from anyone really. No one had given him any time to adjust, and while he did not feel like a leader Aldaron could not deny that people seemed to think he was. "I have no idea what's happening anymore," the elf blurted out before he could stop himself. No, he had been so good at pretending that everything was fine.

"That makes two of us," Varric replied wryly and set the crossbow aside. "For days we've been sitting around watching the Breach spit out demons and Maker knows what. Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can't believe anyone was in there and lived."

"I still can't believe any of this is happening," He had already admitted to being clueless, no point in lying about it now. Varric probably would not believe him anyway.

"If this is just the Maker winding us up, I hope there's a damn good punch line coming," the dwarf continued as though Aldaron had not just admitted that he was clueless and confused. "Heroes are everywhere, I've seen that. But the hole in the sky? That's beyond heroes. We're going to need a miracle. You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I've written enough tragedies to know where this is going."

If that was supposed to be comforting it was not working. So Varric at least understood what an impossible task was in front of them. But Aldaron had already considered running at the first opportunity. Everyone said he was free to go if he wanted to, but where would he go? Run back to his clan in the Free Marches and try to pretend everything was fine? The Breach was probably visible even from there. The Keeper would just send him back again with a speech about duty ringing in his ears. He could practically hear her already. Mythal was watching over you in the temple, Aldaron, her mark is upon your face and upon your hand. You must use this gift to the betterment of the world, as the Creators would want.

The elf shook his head, dismissing the thought. He certainly had not felt the presence or guidance of any gods so far. Maybe he would be less frightened if he had. She would be right about his duty, however, as everyone else was. He was the only person with the ability to close the rifts and the Breach, so he had to do it. The whole world depended on it. Aldaron would not be able to live with himself if he ran away.

Varric was getting up. "I think I'll see what the scouts are serving up for breakfast. Let's hope its more than field rations this time."

They spent several more days in the region, attempting to calm the fighting between mages and Templars enough to ensure the safety of the refugees. There were times that Aldaron could almost forget that everyone thought he was some sort of messiah, but then he would crest a hill and see there in the distance the tell-tale greenish glow of yet another rift in the veil and he could no longer ignore the throbbing in his hand or the weight on his shoulders.

The work was exhausting and endless, but Aldaron succeeded in obtaining a number of small alliances for the inquisition, much to his own surprise. Then again, killing wolves and building watchtowers was hardly politics. If only everything was this simple.

They left the forests and hills behind and returned to Haven much too soon for his own liking.

He had much preferred the forests and hills, even if they were crawling with bandits and demons and war. Haven was not without its own small wars. Like the one he found outside the Chantry as soon as they arrived, a crowd gathered and voices raised in anger.

"I'm curious, Commander, how this Inquisition and your 'herald' plan to restore order as you have promised." It was the priest who had demanded his arrest from the start (What was his name again? It didn't matter). Aldaron was not surprised to see him starting up a fuss again. "We need a proper authority."

"Who? Random clerics who weren't important enough to be at the conclave?" Cullen replied. Aldaron wasn't sure how he felt about any of the people around here, but he respected Cullen's skills, and the man seemed sensible enough.

"This rebel Inquisition and its 'Herald of Andraste'?" The cleric shot back, and almost scoffed. "I think not."

"I don't believe I'm Andraste's herald any more than you do," Aldaron interjected.

"The Inquisition only claims that we must close the Breach or perish," Cullen added, though remained noticeably silent on the religious subject.

"You say that now, Commander, but we will see if the sentiment remains true."

The Breach was the only thing that mattered, but their fledgling Inquisition seemed to be the only people who cared at all. Everyone was too caught up in their petty squabbles to bother looking up and seeing the real threat. And apparently it was his job now to make everyone calm down so they could work together.

Aldaron had seen in the Hinterlands how bad the fighting was between mages and templars, and he knew what it had done back in the Free Marches before he had left. Stopping the war would be no easy task, but standing around here arguing about who was in charge was not going to help things in the slightest. Maybe everyone was right; the Inquisition could not do this alone. They would need the support of others, and that was why Mother Giselle had told him to go to Val Royeaux. To get that support.

Human politics were too complicated. Why couldn't people just see that there was a problem and work together to fix it? Why did they have to spend so much time arguing about who was right and who was in charge? What did it matter? There was a hole in the sky with demons pouring out of it. In Aldaron's perspective that was somewhat more important than putting a woman in a throne.

Trussed up in clothing befitting his station Aldaron went to Val Royeaux and he pretended to be confident and self-assured in front of a crowd that would happily see him dead. The city was unlike anything he had ever seen before, but the glamour of it was overshadowed by the butterflies in his stomach and the bad taste in his mouth and the hammering of his heart. No one was allowed to see that he was nervous, however. He was the Herald of Andraste, they kept insisting despite his protestations, and he had to be confidence personified.

There among the gilded marble and silken finery he saw first hand the selfishness of human politics. If this was how templars behaved then he wanted nothing to do with them or their Chantry. That made it easy to accept the invitation to go speak with the rebelling mages. At least they were civil.

Though Aldaron would have been happy to leave the city right then and there, the others insisted they stay and look into other matters. One scavenger hunt later Aldaron met the strangest elf he had ever known or probably ever would. (He did appreciate the breeches thing, though, and at another time in his life probably would have laughed uproariously at it. But there did not seem much point in laughter these days.) The following evening Cassandra forced him back into the uncomfortable formal wear and then utterly abandoned him at the mansion of some Orlesian politician. Alone in a room full of spoiled, pompous shemlen nobles he could only smile tightly and try to keep from bolting like a startled deer.

Everything that had happened from the conclave until now felt like it passed in a daze. A confusing swirl of new faces and new words and impossible things come to life. Aldaron walked through it all like a person he did not know. A mask of understanding when the shemlen talk about their Maker and their Chantry. A mask of confidence when he says he will do whatever he can to help, that he will close the Breach, he will bring peace. A mask of calm as he faces down those who would see their Inquisition disbanded and destroyed. He is learning how to be the symbol they all want him to be, but he is crumbling on the inside. Because he can scream and protest all he wants that no Maker sent him, they will not listen, so why bother anymore?

Everything he has been since obtaining this mark on his hand is a lie. A façade. They all expect so much of him and he is terrified to let them down. They expect guidance, wisdom, protection. Is he really the only thing holding these people together?

Yes, he is. The answer is clear. So he builds up the mask carefully. The mask of Herald. And he puts it on each morning afraid that someday he will not be able to take it off.

No one sees through the mask. No one sees that he is no more than a confused and frightened child. His cheeks were still sore when he left his clan, but his hand hurts a hundred times more than the needle ever did. No one imagines that he has no idea what is going on around him.

No one except him.

"Fascinating. How does that work, exactly? You have no idea, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and poof! rift closed." The man laughed when he said it, like it was a joke. But he looked at Aldaron with a knowing smile and the mask faltered.

Right from the start Dorian had been able to see right through him.


	3. Dorian

So this was the infamous Herald of Andraste. He was not exactly what Dorian had been expecting. An elf, yes. That was the first thing all the rumors said. To think the Maker would send a wild Dalish elf to do his work; scandalous. Ears and strange tattoos aside, though, Dorian had still expected someone… older? Taller? More imposing? More confident to be sure. The Herald looked like a skittish animal, all wild yellow hair and black eyes and nervous fidgeting. Was this really the one who had stilled the Breach in the sky? If Dorian had not just seen him seal the rift here with his own eyes he would not have believed it. It did beg the question, though: how much political power did the Herald of Andraste actually have? Did the elf do anything but show up, look pretty, and wave his hand at rifts?

Not that he wasn't good at the whole rift thing. Fascinating ability, that. He was good at killing demons, too. Dorian had seen him with those knives, fearless and brutal, a completely different person from the uncertain man who had spoken to him after the battle.

Dorian pondered this curious dichotomy while he followed the Herald his band of misfits back to Haven. (Sweet Maker but it was cold. People actually lived here by choice?) The Herald was quiet the whole trip, spoke very little to any of his companions and kept mostly to himself. Maybe he was just uncomfortable around humans (and the dwarf), which was not terribly unusual for an elf.

Yes, that must be all it was. Just xenophobia. Completely understandable. Dorian did not think about it again until they were back at Redcliff castle days later and everything went terribly, impossibly wrong.

Wrong from one perspective at least. To think that Alexius had actually made their theory work. Astounding. They had actually traveled through time! He had to get his hands on those notes. But now was not the time to admire that. The Herald looked confused. Of course, he could not expect a non-mage to understand such complex magic. Maybe he was talking too fast.

"Is that even possible?" the elf had asked. A week ago Dorian would have laughed and called it impossible as well, but here they were.

Dorian looked to the elf and saw something that made him pause. The Herald was frightened. He was trying very hard to hide it, and doing a passable job, but there was a light in his eyes that belayed the calm expression on his face. The great Herald of Andraste, supposed savior of the world, was terrified.

"Don't worry. I'm here. I'll protect you," Dorian blurted out.

* * *

><p><em>I'll protect you<em>.

Someone else might be offended at the notion of needing protection, but Aldaron just felt… relieved. This situation was beyond his ability to comprehend or to deal with on his own. You cannot stab a magic spell and the mark on his hand only seems to do one thing: close rifts. And really, he wanted someone to look out for him for a change, instead of expecting him to solve all their problems.

Dorian might be all talk as far as he knew, but well so was Aldaron. Besides, there was really no other choice but to trust the mage. It was that or resign himself to being stuck here. Wherever here was. Whenever, if Dorian was right about Alexius' spell.

Aldaron still could not wrap his mind around the idea that someone would alter time just to be rid of him. No, maybe that he could understand considering how important everyone thought he was. What confounded him was that it was actually possible. Time travel.

And Alexius knew what this thing on his hand was. It had to be some sort of magic, then. A tool made by this Elder One he had mentioned. If only Aldaron had been able to get him to talk more. Maybe he could have finally understood what was going on. Or maybe he would have just been more confused.

It was all too much to take in. His mind was reeling and he could barely focus. Why did everything have to be so complicated and… magical? Thank goodness Dorian was here so at least one of them knew what was happening. Aldaron would just try not to appear too stupid and useless in front of him.

First they had to get out of these dungeons, though. Figure out where - and when - they were. The tight quarters were starting to make him feel claustrophobic, and the red lyrium growing out of the walls made him nervous.

Aldaron moved frantically through the halls, Dorian silent on his heels as they passed empty cells and increasing amounts of red lyrium. He had no idea where to go, but doubted his companion had any better ideas. Upward upward, follow any flight of stairs you find and eventually you'll be out. That plan worked for a while, until the obvious way forward was barred. Aldaron did not pause long enough to think about it. If he did, he might start to panic. There had to be another way, so he turned instinctively down one of the other passages.

He wished he hadn't.

They found Cassandra and Varric first. How long had they been down here? And what had been done to them? With horror Aldaron realized that the red glow on both of their faces was not from the torches or the red lyrium on the walls, in was coming from within. Further down the hall they found Grand Enchanter Fiona. Or what was left of her. Aldaron felt sick. How was she still conscious when she was more lyrium than person? What sort of person let this happen? Or subjected someone to this torture? He swallowed heavily to keep from vomiting. The poor woman did confirm Dorian's suspicions, though. They were a full year in the future. It seemed impossible, but it was not the first impossible thing that had happened to him. Varric was right, everything that happened to him was weird.

Weird and terrible.

This place was like a nightmare and it only kept getting worse the closer they came to their goal. It was like that horrible day on the mountaintop again, when the sky had exploded and left its mark on him. He moved with a single-minded focus, because if he stopped to think about it the sheer hopelessness of their situation would overwhelm him. The mark hurt like it had not since that day. Don't think about it, don't think about it. Just keep moving forward, find Alexius, reverse the spell, stop this from happening. Everyone was dead or dying, Fiona practically a part of the walls, Varric and Cassandra half-mad from the red lyrium, Leliana tortured and he did not want to think what else they had done to her. What about everyone else? What about Haven? And Creators, the sky.

There was no sky. Only the Breach.

He could feel the mask slipping, cracking. He was losing his grip on that carefully constructed façade in the face of all this madness. He tore through the castle blindly, trusted Dorian's words to the letter though he had no reason to. No reason except that Dorian said he could fix this and it was the only option available. He dared no think what would happen if Dorian was wrong.

Varric, Cassandra, Leliana, his friends. (When had he started considering them friends?) Was this the future they all had to look forward to? Aldaron found it hard to believe that his presence was the only thing keeping the world from ending. He was only one person. Even with this thing on his hand, what was he supposed to do?

If not for Dorian, Alexius would have succeeded. Thrown into the future all on his own, Aldaron would never have made it back. He was no mage; he did not understand anything about magic. He would have been stuck here in this nightmare, this future that was beyond redemption.

He watched them die and the mask shattered entirely. He cried out, tried to go to them to protect them and only Dorian's hand on his arm and the sensible words in his ears held him back. There was nothing he could do to help except go back and make sure that none of this happened in the first place. Then they were thrown through time again. It left Aldaron staggered and reeling and confused, no less so than the first time. Looking around, he found they were still in the throne room but everything was changed, back to the way it had been before. The way it should be. And there was Alexius. Aldaron tensed and reached for his daggers, expecting another fight, but it did not come.

The magister surrendered without a fight, all the fire gone out of him in an instant. Aldaron was actually relieved, because he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Can they go back to Haven now and sleep for a week?

No such luck.

Human royalty. Aldaron scrabbled to school his expression, to put the mask back together and present the confident and reasonable Herald he knew they expected.

It felt like everyone was looking at him.

Everyone was looking at him. They wanted him to… Oh, good. He looked between the king, the Grand Enchanter, and Cassandra, but none of them gave him any indication of what he should do. They were really letting him make this decision on his own? Why? He was not remotely prepared for this.

They had come here to get the help of the mages, however. So the answer seemed simple enough, really. "We would be honored to have the mages fight at the Inquisition's side." His voice sounded much more confident than he felt, and not nearly as exhausted. The mask was firmly in place again. Creators willing, it would remain that way.

* * *

><p>When they arrived back in Haven, however, it was clear that not everyone was happy with his decision. Word had already reached the village, but none of the sentiment reached Aldaron's ears until they were in the chantry. Cullen was furious, Josephine was none too happy, either, and Cassandra and Leliana were impossible for him to read. He had clearly done the wrong thing, so why hadn't anyone stopped him? Cassandra was there. Cullen was right, she should have intervened. He wasn't fit for making these kinds of decisions. And now everyone was angry and it was his fault.<p>

It was a struggle to keep his expression neutral while his thoughts spiraled into despair. Why had anyone thought it was a good idea to put him in charge of anything? He was pulled out of those thoughts when Dorian interrupted the circular arguments and announced his intention to stay. Aldaron stared openly. Even after everything, he had expected Dorian to leave when it was all done, so he was surprised, but pleasantly so.

"You're staying?"

"Oh, didn't I mention?" Dorian asked, smirking as he met Aldaron's eyes, and it was hard for the elf to keep from smiling in return. Surprising, he had not felt the urge to smile in weeks. "The south is so charming and rustic. I adore it to little pieces."

Aldaron felt so relieved he barely registered the rest of the man's words. The whole time in that horrible future Dorian's presence and his unfailing confidence had been the one thing holding Aldaron together, keeping him focused and preventing him from spiraling into hopeless terror. He needed that.

"There's no one I would rather be stranded in time with, future or present." The words were out of Aldaron's mouth before he even realized he was speaking them. For a moment he was horrified, embarrassed, then Dorian laughed.

"Well, let's try not to get stranded again anytime soon."

* * *

><p>Aldaron could not sleep. This was becoming normal. When the pain from his marked hand kept him awake he was in the habit of wandering the cold empty paths outside Haven's walls. It was well past midnight, not a soul was awake save the guards on the walls, and they paid him little mind. Tonight it was more than just the pain keeping him awake. Aldaron was exhausted and exhaustion was usually enough to help him pass out for a few hours, but every time he closed his eyes his mind replayed what he had seen in Redcliff. That other Redcliff. He wondered if he would have nightmares about it forever.<p>

He stopped at the stables and leaned against the fence, looking in on the horse that Dennet had given him. It was dozing in the way that horses do, and opened its eyes briefly when he walked up, snorted at him, then closed its eyes again. Aldaron held his hand out, murmuring softly in elvhen as he stroked the animal's soft nose.

"Can't sleep?"

Aldaron startled so bad he jumped and spun around. How had he not heard someone come up behind him? But it was only Dorian, standing a few paces away looking as startled as Aldaron felt and holding his hands up placatingly. "I come in peace."

Aldaron relaxed, but felt suddenly foolish. "Sorry," he replied, reigning his emotions in again. "I didn't hear you approach."

"No harm done," Dorian assured, and lowered his arms to wrap them around himself against the cold. "I'm apparently more stealthy than I realized. I'll try to be more obvious next time."

Next time? Aldaron was not sure he wanted there to be a next time. He was not sure he wanted there to be this time. The whole point of coming out to the stables in the middle of the night was to be alone. He was glad that Dorian had decided to stay with the Inquisition, but that did not mean he wanted the mage to be with him all the time. Dorian had seen though his mask once, but he was not ready to take it off entirely, not willingly.

"What are you doing out here?" the Herald asked.

"You may not have noticed, but it is absolutely frigid here," Dorian said, and sighed dramatically, "And that… cabin" he said the word like he wasn't sure it was the correct one, "they've given me is draftier than a barn."

That did not answer the question. "You thought the actual barn might be warmer?" Aldaron asked, perplexed.

Dorian let out a bark of laughter. "Hardly," he replied, "Though I would not be surprised. No, I stepped out for more firewood and what should I see but the Herald of Andraste wandering the village like a lonely ghost. I thought to myself: what in the world is he doing out in the freezing cold so late at night? And now here I am, asking you what in the world are you doing out in the freezing cold so late at night? Not collecting firewood, I gather."

"No," Aldaron replied, and turned his gaze back to the dozing horse. Had Dorian really followed him all the way out here just to ask why he couldn't sleep? Why? The man was obviously freezing. And what did he care if Aldaron wasn't sleeping? No one else did.

If Dorian was expecting more of an explanation he was disappointed. The silence between them stretched on and on. Speechless. Aldaron had not thought it was possible to render Dorian speechless.

He heard the crunch of snow behind him, and then Dorian was standing at the fence beside him and staring at the dozing horse, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He had to be absolutely miserable out here, what was he doing? "So, does the Herald of Andraste suffer from insomnia? Or is there something else that has driven you out into this Maker-forsaken cold?"

Dorian might be far more perceptive than he let on, Aldaron realized. He glanced down at his marked hand, gripping tightly to the fence to keep from shaking. No one was allowed to see such weakness. But he was beginning to realize that Dorian would not leave until he got an answer. The man had offered an easy out. Insomnia. No one here had known him before, they had no reason to think it was a lie. Part of him wanted to tell the truth, though.

"I can't stop thinking about what we saw in Redcliff," Aldaron said. It was only half the truth.

"Ah," Dorian nodded sagely. "It was… quite memorable, I'll grant you that."

That was putting it mildly. Everything they had seen, that possible future, he could not allow that to happen. Seeing what would happen if they failed, however, only made the task ahead that much more daunting. "I can't let that happen," the Herald said quietly. "It's so much more than just a hole in the sky now. This… Elder One… I have to stop him."

"I agree," Dorian replied. "I don't envy your position, Herald, but you are not alone. The people here seem very capable. And of course you have me now," he added with a grin, "This improves your odds immeasurably."

He had known Dorian for less than a week, so why did he trust this man? There was no reason to. No rational explanation as to why Dorian's presence made it so easy for him to relax, why a simple smile from the man made him feel like maybe this was all going to work out after all.

_I'll protect you._

The man probably hadn't even meant it when he said that. A joke to cut the tension, to ease his fears, to earn his trust. But Aldaron wanted so badly for it to be true. There was so much that depended on him, was it too much to ask for just one person to have his back?

"Can I tell you a secret?" Aldaron asked.

"You can," Dorian replied. "It might not be a very good idea, but I certainly won't stop you."

"I have no idea what I'm doing," Aldaron blurted, then let out a bitter laugh. It actually felt good to say it out loud, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He needed to say it out loud. The words came suddenly in a rush, and he was unable to hold them back even if he had wanted to. "I'm making it all up as I go along and pretending, but I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even understand what's happening most of the time. And no one cares at all! They don't care about me. They don't need me. They only need this thing on my hand. They wouldn't care about me at all if I didn't have it.

"They want me to be some savior, but I don't actually matter at all, just this thing. This damn mark. I don't even want it!" His throat was tightening; he had to stop now before he broke down crying in front of this man. What would Dorian think of him then? What must he think of him already? Now that he knew the Herald of Andraste was just an ignorant knife-ear. Aldaron forced his mouth shut, bottled up his emotions again and squeezed his eyes shut, ready for the laughter and was bound to come from the man sitting beside him.

The laughter did not come.

"Well, if you've got that all out, shall I tell you a secret as well?" Dorian asked. His voice remained as light and carefree as it had ever been, as though he had not just listened to Aldaron pour his heart out. Slowly, hesitantly, Aldaron opened his eyes again and raised them to look over at the mage. "Neither does anyone else."

Aldaron stared at him as though he had grown a second head. That probably would have been less shocking, actually.

"Look around," Dorian gestured blindly to the camp, silent though it was this late at night, and to the Breach in the distant sky. "Do you think anyone really understands what's happening? Even that Solas fellow probably doesn't know half as much as he thinks he does. In fact, probably less than half, he seems to think he knows everything about everything."

That couldn't be right. Everyone else seemed so confident and sure of themselves when they made plans and discussed politics. They all spoke with such authority. Then again, hadn't he been doing the same thing? Hiding behind his mask, the persona of the Herald that he had built up, and pretending to be brave and wise.

"You think so?" Aldaron asked, and hated how his voice betrayed his emotions so easily. He sounded like a frightened child. He was a frightened child.

"What? Do I think Solas is full of shit?" Dorian asked, purposely misconstruing the question and smiling to himself. "Don't get me wrong, he is a very talented mage, for an apostate, but honestly. You don't find him the least bit… pretentious?"

"No more so than you," Aldaron replied dryly.

"Was that a joke?" Dorian let out a bark of laughter and grinned. "The Herald of Andraste has a sense of humor after all. Alert the Chantry! I'm certain they will revoke your title immediately."

If only. "I think they would have already if they could," the elf replied, and felt the faintest of smiles tug at the corner of his mouth, barely a twitch of the muscles, but it was more than he had smiled since the conclave.

"Ah, I suppose you're stuck with it, then," Dorian replied, and shrugged.

Aldaron supposed he was. He stared into Dorian's face searchingly. Looking for… something. He did not know. Some reason why this man could read him so easily. Whatever he was looking for he did not see it then. "We are heading to the Storm Coast tomorrow," he said, "To meet a mercenary company. Something to do while we wait for everything to be sorted with the mages." He hesitated a moment before continuing, "You are welcome to come, if you would like."

Dorian nodded slowly and hummed thoughtfully. "As tempting as the offer is, the sea and I are currently not on speaking terms, so I will have to decline the offer. Perhaps next time."

A mix of emotions swirled through Aldaron's chest. Disappointment, relief, resignation. He did not understand any of them. "Next time, then."


	4. Haven

The Storm Coast was miserable. Dorian was lucky not to be there. It rained constantly but somehow there was still salt crusted on everything he owned. The wind made his ears ache and for once he was actually happy to wear shoes because everything was gravel and mud and incredibly unpleasant. But they had hired an eclectic band of mercenaries that Aldaron was not sure what to make of yet, and found several signs that the missing Grey Wardens had been in the area. Blackwall had been excited about that. At least someone was happy.

Aldaron was happy to get back to Haven. It was actually starting to feel like home. Or more like home than anything away from his clan ever had before. Comfort and familiarity. It also had a change of clothes and the opportunity to wash the salt out of his hair and out of his ears. He did that before going to the chantry to find out what he'd missed while away.

"The last of the mages from Redcliff arrived the day before yesterday," Cullen reported. "They are ready to assault the Breach on your order."

On his order. What a daunting notion, but for once Aldaron thought they meant it. He was the one that could close it, after all. They couldn't do anything without him. Or without his hand, at least.

"Then let's get it over with," the Herald said, looking up from the map on the table. "Tomorrow. Can everything be prepared by then?" It was already late in the afternoon, and Aldaron had no idea what sort of preparations the others needed to make. He assumed a plan had been made and the mages and soldiers briefed on it. Presumably all Aldaron had to do was show up and stick his hand out. Wiggle his fingers, as Dorian had so aptly put it.

"Are you certain you're ready?" Cullen asked. Was that actual concern in his voice? "We cannot know how you will be affected."

Sitting around here any longer would not change that. The whole point of this Inquisition was to close the hole in the sky. Ready or not, Aldaron wanted it done. Maybe then this whole mess would be cleared up and he could go home. He really wanted to go home. He wanted things to be simple again. "I'm certain," the Herald assured him.

* * *

><p>The Breach looked the same as he remembered, though there were no demons falling out of it this time, so that was an improvement. The mark on his hand throbbed and burned, bursting to light as he drew near. The same reaction it had to the smaller rifts, but magnified, intensified, by the size of the Breach. He was almost getting used to it; a frightening thought.<p>

Behind him Aldaron was vaguely aware of Solas giving some kind of speech, last minute advice to the mages that had come to help. He was not listening, would not understand anyway. Magic. What was he doing here when a dozen people more suited than him had been at the conclave? The gods had a sick sense of humor, if this was indeed their doing.

He stared up into the Breach, felt his hand throb in reaction to its presence, or perhaps in anticipation.

Now or never.

I hope this works.

He stepped forward and held up his arm. Immediately the mark burst to life, pulling on the Breach, drawing it in, sealing it. The pain coursed up his entire arm. He grit his teeth to keep from crying out, clenched his other hand into a fist and willed himself to stand firm until it was done. The explosion of magic, or whatever rifts were made of, when the tear finally sealed knocked him off his feet, he fell to hands and knees, gasping and trembling and trying to pull himself together. His arm was on fire.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, looked over to see Cassandra's face. "You did it," she said, something akin to awe in her voice.

So he had.

The sky was clear. No more green light anywhere to be seen, although the clouds swirled in an echo of what had been there moments before. His hand still hurt, but mostly from the aftershock of using the mark to such an extent. If he focused on it, no easy task, the mark itself was not nearly as painful as before. But it was still there.

Aldaron staggered to his feet and stared up at the sky.

He did it.

They did it.

* * *

><p>Celebrations were already starting by the time they returned to Haven. No doubt the people here had been watching the sky anxiously and knew the moment the Breach had been sealed. The throbbing in Aldaron's arm had faded on the walk down the mountain, and he was shocked to find that he could barely feel the mark on his hand at all. It was still there, of course, a faint ache like an old bruise or an overworked muscle, but after weeks of the stabbing pain that kept him up nights it was as good as numb. And a welcome relief.<p>

When they saw him the people cheered. They shouted congratulations and thanks and praise to both him and the god he did not believe in. Aldaron tried to smile, but he worried it looked as forced as it felt.

Thankfully the revelers left him alone after their initial cheers, which Aldaron was grateful for. It made him uncomfortable still, all the praise and the bowing and the talk of Andraste and the Maker. He still felt like an outsider here, though admittedly he had made little effort to do otherwise. He kept to himself, spoke to few people other than the heads of the Inquisition and those he had recruited personally. Everyone else treated him too much like the prophet they believed he was and it was unnerving. It was no surprise, though, that he did not have anyone to celebrate with and found himself watching the revelry from the sidelines, too uncomfortable to even consider joining in.

That was where Cassandra found him, watching from the sidelines. He was not surprised that she was not joining in the festivities, she did not seem like the celebratory type. "Solas confirms that the heavens are scarred, but calm. The Breach is sealed." she reported, coming to stand beside him. Aldaron nodded absently. He did not need Solas to confirm that for him, the loss of pain in his marked hand had been enough to tell him it worked. "We've reports of lingering rifts," Cassandra continued, "And many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has already spread."

Heroism? If standing there and holding his arm up made him a hero then it was shocking that there weren't more heroes in the world. "Do they know I fell into this? Almost literally?" he asked. And he was still waiting for a sign that a god – any god – had chosen him.

"Perhaps you are too close to judge," Cassandra conceded. "We needed you. We still do."

Of course. It had been wishful thinking to dream it would be over now. The mark was still on his hand, there were still rifts scattered across the countryside that only the mark could close, and they still did not know what had caused the Breach in the first place. Whatever sort of magic could cause such a thing was incredibly dangerous. If it fell into the wrong hands... Well, it likely already had considering recent events. That sort of power should not belong to anyone. Even this mark was too dangerous if he ever figured out how to control it.

"We have yet to discover how the Breach came to be," Cassandra continued after a brief moment. "And that is only the most conspicuous of our troubles."

There had to be someone behind this. Holes in the sky do not open by themselves. If the one responsible had survived the conclave, unlikely as that seemed, they had to be found and stopped before they could strike again. Assuming they would strike again and that the destruction of the conclave was not their only goal. But Aldaron had no idea how to go about answering any of their lingering questions. Hopefully Solas would be able to. He seemed the only person who understood anything about the Breach. Perhaps Aldaron should go find him now to discuss it.

He didn't even get to finish the thought before it was cut off by the loud clanging of a bell and shouts of alarm. They were under attack. He followed Cassandra to the gates without question, and found Cullen already shouting orders. "It's a massive force. The bulk over the mountain."

"Under what banner?" Josephine was asking.

"None."

Josephine's shock mirrored Aldaron's own, but he was less concerned with who was attacking and more concerned with why and how to kill them. And with the knocking at the door. Someone was outside. Cautious of a potential trap, Aldaron strode up to the gate and pushed it open.

It was a young man, could not have been older than Aldaron himself, obviously agitated. He spoke of templars and the Elder One. What he said made little sense, but Aldaron was only half listening. He was staring up at the mountainside and the figures coming toward them. It did not matter now who was attacking, they had to defend themselves.

Aldaron was much better at following orders than giving them. And he much preferred throwing himself daggers first at attacking armies than standing back and telling other people to do it. The templars swarmed like so many red ants down the mountainside, across the bridge, across the frozen lake, and up toward the walls. Keep them off the trebuchets. That was the order, and that was what Aldaron would do.

And he did just that. With the ragtag crew that he had somehow assembled at his side Aldaron kept them off the trebuchets. But you don't keep a dragon off a trebuchet.

Aldaron had not been so terrified since his first encounter with a demon. A dragon. How was there a dragon? Why was there a dragon? Demons were one thing, he had almost gotten used to the demons, but this was completely different. For a moment he could do nothing but stare in horror as the creature winged overhead. And then he ran.

Even Cullen did not know what to do in the face of a dragon.

Or an Archdemon.

Haven was overrun and surrounded. There was no way out. Was there really no choice but to bury themselves alive and hope to take their enemies with them? That couldn't be the end. There had to be another way.

Yes, a passage through the mountains. A way out, they could still survive this.

Not Aldaron, though. He knew as soon as Roderick mentioned the path. He knew what he had to do. He had to protect them. He closed the Breach. They didn't need him anymore. They would find some other way to close the remaining rifts. If this Elder One wanted him then it could have him. So long as everyone else survived.

Protect. That was what he'd been trained to do, raised to do: protect the clan. This was not his clan, but they all looked at him as though he were their Keeper. Aldaron was no keeper, but he could fight, and he would have died in defense of his clan. These people here, they weren't his clan, his family, but they were something close. They were kind to him. They respected him, looked up to him. For all that he did not deserve it, for all that he was surely a constant let down, they glorified him. It was time he earned that respect.

"Cullen, get them out safely," the Herald said, and turned on his heel, heading for the door. His hand was on the wood when a voice stopped him.

"Leaving without me? I'd hate to miss all the fun."

Aldaron looked over his shoulder and there was Dorian, staff in hand and looking a little ragged around the edges. "What?" he asked stupidly.

"I may have been eavesdropping on your less-than-subtle strategy meeting. You need to be noticed? That's my specialty," the man said with a grin that did not befit the situation.

"And Archdemons are sort of a Grey Warden specialty," Blackwall added, stepping up beside him.

Aldaron stared between the two men, too stunned for a moment to even begin to protest. And then The Iron Bull strode up, war axe hefted over one shoulder and grinning with a slightly manic glint in his eye, "I hear we're fighting a dragon. Count me in, boss."

"It's a suicide mission," Aldaron protested.

"For one man alone, maybe," Blackwall said, "You'll need someone to watch your back while you get the trebuchet in place."

That was sound logic and Aldaron could not argue with it. "Alright," the Herald relented. "But as soon as it's done you all get out of there, understood?"

"Crystal clear, boss," Bull was still grinning and it was a little concerning. "What are we waiting for?"

Haven was overrun.

The templars were upon them as soon as they stepped outside the chantry. It was a struggle just to get to the remaining trebuchet, and from there it was a constant effort to keep the templars away long enough to aim the damned thing. Blackwall had been right. With three people at his back Aldaron could barely focus on aiming the trebuchet. He would never have been able to do this by himself. At least their distraction seemed to be working. It felt like the entire force was descending upon them.

The dragon was back only moments after Aldaron had gotten the weapon into position. Its roar was deafening as it swooped overhead. "Move, now!" the Herald ordered, frantically gesturing for the others to leave. He did not see them get away, the dragon, Archdemon, whatever it was, cut him off. It stared him down and he stared back, paralyzed with fear. He was going to get eaten by a dragon before he could launch their final desperate counterattack. There was no way he could get back to the trebuchet faster than that thing could snap him up. But it was not advancing, and soon Aldaron knew why.

The Elder One.

What was that thing? It was not human. Darkspawn? But Aldaron had never heard of any darkspawn like this. It spoke. Spoke as though it were human, spoke of the Breach and the mark on his hand. It had caused all this. It had opened the Breach and destroyed the temple.

The mark on his hand burst to life as though by this creature's command. No, he was certain it was by this creature's command. The pain lanced through him, burning, tearing, stabbing, the worst it had ever been. Aldaron staggered, fell to his knees. He could barely hear the creature's words through the pain, could barely focus on anything else. But he had to know, he had to know why this was happening. What was this thing? Why did he have it? Where did it come from?

"What is this thing meant to do?" he could barely get the words out.

"It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it."

What did that mean? Aldaron had no time to ask or even to think about it before the creature reached down and grabbed him, it took hold of his marked hand and lifted him bodily off the ground. Aldaron struggled for barely a moment before realizing it was futile. He could not fight this thing. So he listened, he tried to understand so that in the slim chance he managed to survive this he could explain it to someone who would actually understand. What this creature was, what it wanted, what was this mark on his hand? The answers he got only lead to more questions.

The creature threw him bodily across the ground. Aldaron collided violently with the trebuchet, gasped in pain and struggled to regain his senses once more. He had dropped his knives somewhere in the confusion of templars and dragons and ancient talking darkspawn. But there was a dead templar at his feet and Aldaron grabbed the sword out of its dead hands without even thinking about it and scrambled to his feet. What he was supposed to do with a sword he barely knew how to use against that thing he did not know, but at least he would not go down without a fight.

That was when he saw, streaking up through the dark sky like a beacon of hope, Cullen's signal. The people were clear. His job was done. Almost done.

This was where fairytale heroes always said something profound or witty or brave, but Aldaron had no words. Maybe Varric could think of something to put in the song they wrote about him. Assuming anyone bothered to write a song about him. Instead he just lunged toward the trebuchet and threw his entire weight against the lever, the counterweight fell, the stone flew and Aldaron ran and never looked back.

* * *

><p>Cold. Pain. Those were the first things Aldaron was aware of when he woke. Everything hurt, his ribs most of all, and his hip where it pressed against the cold stone floor. And his head. For a moment he did not know where he was or how he got there, but then he remembered.<p>

Cracking his eyes open slowly, Aldaron tried to take stock of the situation. All he could see was rocks and snow, the light was dim, coming through a small shaft above him. A cave of some sort? Or a basement? Whatever it was had saved him from the avalanche.

He tried to sit up. His ribs screamed in protest, he gasped in pain, bit his lip and forced himself to his feet. Once upright he wavered, one hand wrapped around his midsection, the other thrown out to the side for balance. He felt lightheaded, and there was a sharp pain at the side of his head. Carefully he brought a hand up to touch – damn that hurt – and his fingers came back red with blood.

He couldn't stay here.

Blinking and struggling to focus his vision Aldaron glanced around the cavern and then staggered forward. Every step jostled his ribs – definitely broken – but he clenched his jaw against the pain and continued forward. He had no intention of starving or freezing to death under an avalanche. Not before he knew whether that thing was dead or not. Besides, it didn't hurt any more than the mark – the anchor – did when it glowed.

He felt and heard the wind before he saw the end of the passage, and it spurred him forward until he staggered out into the snow. The wind was biting, cutting through his coat and straight to the bone. He gasped and shivered, breath fogging before his face. Snow swirled around him, obscuring everything in sight. Where was he? There was no sign of the village left that he could see. It was all buried. Squinting through the fog and the snow Aldaron tried to make out any landmark that would tell him where to head.

Was that a light somewhere? Yes. In the distance, up the mountain. Please be real. Please don't be an illusion, a trick of the mind.

He wrapped both arms around himself against the cold and began making his way toward the distant light, hoping it was anyone but the templars or the Elder One. The going was hard. Each step sunk into the snow up to his knee. The cold bit through him until it was all he could feel. At least he couldn't feel the pain in his ribs anymore. He also couldn't feel his fingers, or his ears. He walked for what felt like forever, hours upon hours, slowly, one small step after the other. He was shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering and gasping for breath. He couldn't feel his toes anymore. He couldn't feel much of anything.

The light was still in the distance, though, growing larger and brighter as he drew closer. It was definitely real, he was not imagining it. That was what kept him going. He came across a campfire, still warm. He was close now, he had to be. Just a little further.

"There he is!"

"Thank the maker!"

Aldaron did not feel his knees hit the ground as his legs finally gave out. He was unconscious before his head hit the snow.

* * *

><p>Notes: Thanks for reading! This fic can also be found on Archive of Our Own, and you should go bother me on tumblr. Same username (Erandir) everywhere.<p> 


	5. Inquisitor

The news spread through camp like wildfire, started by a scout who came running down from the mountain pass panting and stumbling through the snow. They found the Herald. He was alive.

Everyone wanted to see for themselves if it was true. There was a lot of jostling and cheering, at least until they actually saw him. Rather, they saw Cullen and they saw the limp body in his arms. The sight stopped Dorian dead in his tracks the same way it had stopped so many others. Lavellan certainly did not look alive. The elf was unconscious, dead weight as Cullen carried him into the camp. The Commander was shouting for a healer, a surgeon, anything. For the first time in his life Dorian wished he was less good at blowing things up and significantly better at putting them back together. As it was he would probably do more harm than good considering Lavellan's delicate condition. The elf's yellow hair was tinged red on one side, his lips and fingers purple, his skin was almost as white as the snow, which made the branching tattoos on his face stand out in even starker contrast than usual. And he looked so small, like a child. Dorian stared until Cullen disappeared into a tent closely followed by Mother Giselle and a mage Dorian did not recognize. That had to be the healer. He hoped they were good.

The tent flap swung closed and Dorian continued to stare even as Cassandra took up a guard outside and glared hard enough to send most of the onlookers shuffling away. He felt useless and had since escaping Haven on the tail end of an avalanche. Dorian was rubbish at this whole survival thing, and if he'd thought his cabin in Haven was cold the tents were infinitely more so. He had also had to share a tent the night before with Varric which was an experience to say the least.

The tense atmosphere that had lifted briefly at news of the Herald's survival settled over the camp again. Yes, he was a live, but for how long?

There was no further news beyond 'yes, he's still alive' for a full day. Dorian wasn't the only person who kept looking over at that tent every few moments, but he liked to think he was somewhat less obvious about it than everyone else. Of course, after proving himself utterly hopeless at camping, and with at least half the population still actively avoiding the "Tevinter magister", there was little else for Dorian to do but sit around and wait for news.

Late in the afternoon that next day the tent flap opened and the Herald emerged. He was clearly still weak. He walked slowly, Mother Giselle hovered at his side but did not actually offer any help, didn't even touch him. Just there to make sure he didn't faint and bash his head in on a rock. Someone had washed the blood out of his hair, but his face was still ashen and he was dressed in the same weather beaten and bloodstained clothes they had found him in.

The Herald made his way across the camp slowly, waylaid every few steps by someone coming up to greet him. They all bowed their heads respectfully; some clasped his hands in theirs. The Herald received them all with a polite smile and nod, but he was obviously quite worn out from his miraculous return to life. Why were they all bothering him? Couldn't they see he was tired? What was he even doing out of bed?

Meeting with his council, it turned out. That was where his slow, halting walk led him eventually; to the make-shift table where the four heads of the Inquisition had been arguing for the better part of the day. Dorian was too far away to make out anything they said unless the argument got particularly heated. The conversation grew hushed as the Herald arrived and leaned heavily against the table. They all seemed calm and relieved for the first time Dorian had seen since the attack.

So it seemed the Herald of Andraste did more than show up and wave his hand at rifts. Well, he also faced down Archdemons and talking darkspawn monsters. And rose from the dead if one believed the gossip around camp, but Dorian was not that stupid. His survival might be somewhat miraculous, but Dorian did not believe for a second that he had actually died. (Not unless you counted all those horrible seconds before he'd been found when Dorian did actually think the elf dead and buried under half a mountain's worth of snow. Dorian wasn't counting those; he was pretending they never happened.)

Whatever the Herald had to say did not last long before Mother Giselle was rounding him up again like a stray child and ushering him over to the nearby infirmary to lay down again. Good. He obviously needed more rest.

Seeing him up and about, weak though he was, took a weight off Dorian's chest that he had not even been aware of. At least not consciously aware of, because if he was honest with himself he was not hanging around here watching the elf's tent for hours just because he had nothing better to do. But seeing him alive and awake and moving under his own power was a huge relief, and Dorian no longer felt the need to sit around watching and waiting. He had his answers. Lavellan would be fine.

The Herald's report of what had happened at Haven spread through the camp quickly. If they were trying to keep things quiet they were doing a rather terrible job. More likely the spread of news was intentional. Dorian heard it from Varric, one of the few people not actively avoiding him and still his slightly unwilling roommate. Dorian was used to people avoiding him, but when he heard who this Elder One claimed to be it all made much more sense. One of the magisters who had breached the Fade a millennia ago. Dorian might have laughed except that the look on Varric's face was dead serious and more than a little worried. Also he didn't believe Lavellan would lie about this. He got the impression that Lavellan lied about very little. Save perhaps his self-assurance. Although Dorian could not imagine facing down an Archdemon and coming away without a boost of confidence, so perhaps that issue was solved.

Dorian was certainly more than impressed by everything he had seen the Herald do. Although he had been a little skeptical at first – back in Redcliffe the elf had seemed more like a frightened deer than a leader of armies – but after watching him at Haven there was no doubt that Lavellan had it in him. There was also no doubt that the people here cared about more than the mark on his hand. The worry and fear and utter despair in the camp when all thought him dead made it perfectly clear how much the people cared for their Herald.

Lavellan might doubt himself still, but Dorian certainly did not.

They were up and moving first thing in the morning, everyone packing up and breaking down tents for their journey to… well Dorian wasn't actually certain where they were going. The Herald would lead them; that was the word going around. Lead them where, no one seemed to know. That didn't engender a lot of confidence, but it was better than freezing or starving to death here. And he didn't think the Herald would take them wandering aimlessly through the wilderness. The elf had to have some destination in mind. Dorian hoped it was out of these wretched mountains. Maybe somewhere warm. A man could dream.

The going was slow and miserable, slogging through snow and over rocks for nearly three full days. Dorian had just about given up hope of ever having dry socks again when he crested a rise and saw it there in the distance. Sitting atop a pinnacle of rock and framed by the higher peaks behind it.

Skyhold.

Dorian wasn't much for southern architecture (drab and inelegant, function over form, nothing like home), but after four days in tents and snow that grey stone fortress was the greatest thing he had ever seen.

Night had fallen by the time the last of the refugees filed across the bridge and in through the gates. They set up camp in the courtyard. The fortress had certainly seen better days. Many of the structures looked ready to collapse any moment and no one wanted to risk going inside in the dark.

Dorian didn't know where the Herald and his advisers had disappeared to, and at the moment he didn't care. He was just glad to be out of the wind and the snow of the mountain passes. It was still cold here, but the walls sheltered them from the worst of the winds and the ground was mostly devoid of snow. He threw himself, exhausted, down onto his bedroll and was asleep in moments. Maybe by this time tomorrow he would have a roof over his head again. That would be proof the Herald worked miracles.

By the time he woke the next morning – and of course he had overslept rather significantly – all the camp was in a commotion. People were milling about everywhere, seeming in a much improved mood for having found this place. He imagined the day would be spent scouring the keep, ensuring the structure was fit for habitation and planning the necessary repairs. He wondered where he would fit in in all that. Manual labor was not exactly his strong suit. Not to mention he was still being pointedly shunned.

That was when he spotted the Herald for the first time in days, mounting the stairs up toward the main hall. Someone had scrounged him up some new clothes. They were hideous, but it was entirely unfair how good they made his legs look. Absolutely criminal. That's Andraste's chosen prophet, Dorian, stop staring at his arse.

What stopped his staring was unfortunately not his own willpower, but the gathering crowd, the whispered gossip. The Herald would lead the Inquisition now. Officially.

He found himself rather embarrassingly cheering alongside the soldiers and the commoners, and he felt something – pride? – swell up in his chest as he watched the Herald take up that ridiculous sword. That thing was nearly as big as he was. Poor elf looked like he could barely lift it, but it painted an impressive picture and obviously had the desired effect.

"Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!"

The responding cheer was deafening.

* * *

><p>Inquisitor.<p>

Aldaron had accepted it, but he was nervous. The people were overjoyed. He no longer doubted their faith in him, though he worried it was misplaced. A Dalish elf leading a human religious movement. Someday historians would laugh about it. He was determined, though, to make sure he did right by the people here. They wanted him to lead, and they trusted him, and he would not let them down. It was him their enemies wanted, after all. It would be cowardly to make someone else take up the title of Inquisitor, to make someone else fight his battles for him.

Skyhold was magnificent. Even in its current state of disrepair and neglect the fortress was impressive.

It was the second day since the Inquisition's arrival. Repairs to the main structures were already underway. Everywhere soldiers and scouts and merchants and mages alike were clearing debris, inspecting walls, setting up scaffolding. Absolutely everyone was lending a hand somewhere. It was inspiring.

The Inquisitor, of course, was above such work. Or at least that was the impression he got. He had made his rounds, checking in on every endeavor, talking with the handful of people he was beginning to consider friends. But if he ever offered to lend a hand he was turned away. We have everything under control, Inquisitor, don't mind us. Surely you have more important things to worry about.

Not really.

So Aldaron explored. He wandered the courtyards, climbed the battlements, cautiously looked into the crumbling towers. This was his castle, apparently, though the concept of owning a place was completely foreign to the elf. He had never stayed in one place long enough to consider the location home. Home was where the clan was. Thinking of them tore painfully at his heart. There had been only one message from them back in Haven, inquiring about his health. How would they react when they learned he had been made Inquisitor? Would they be proud of him? Were they still safe in the Free Marches? The clan of the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor. That was too much recognition; it was dangerous for Dalish elves.

His thoughtful explorations eventually lead Aldaron to… what did shemlen call places like this? A library? That sounded right. Aldaron had never seen so many books in his life. Where did they come from? Had they all just been here? He paused at the top of the stairs and looked around the circular room. Every wall was lined floor to ceiling with shelves. They were not all full, but it was still an impressive number of books. He saw a few people milling about, scanning through the tomes, piles of books on tables and on the floor.

He saw Dorian.

In the midst of everything else he had almost forgotten about the man. There were too many other things to think about. But seeing him now, Aldaron was happy. He had been happy to see all of his companions alive and well after such a harrowing experience, but he was lying to himself when he thought this was the same feeling.

He had just opened his mouth for a greeting, but Dorian spoke up first. "Brilliant, isn't it?" the man asked without looking away from the shelf he was perusing. "One moment you're trying to restore order in a world gone mad. That should be enough for anyone to handle, yes? Then, out of nowhere, an Archdemon appears and kicks you in the head." Well that was certainly one way of putting it. " 'What? You thought this would be easy?' 'No, I was just hoping you wouldn't crush our village like an anthill.' 'Sorry about that. Archdemons like to crush, you know. Can't be helped.' Am I speaking too quickly for you?"

Aldaron realized he must look as stunned as he felt. He'd been a little overwhelmed by Dorian's diatribe and let his mask slip. Why did this always happen around Dorian? "I was distracted, that's all," he said, trying to look less like a slack-jawed idiot than he felt.

"Distracted? By my wit and charm?" Dorian sounded so pleased with himself. "I have plenty of both."

"It's nice to meet someone so aware of their talents," Aldaron blurted out, and regretted it immediately. That was supposed to be something diplomatic, like Josephine always wanted him to be, but what came out was not at all what he'd intended.

"I'm a man of many talents, what can I say?" Dorian just laughed, though. If anything, he seemed flattered. Comforting to know he hadn't messed up too badly. But Dorian sobered quickly. "I always assumed the 'Elder One' behind the Venatori was a magister, but this… is something else completely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry's tales of magisters starting the Blight are just that: tales. But here we are. One of those very magisters. A darkspawn."

Aldaron might not know very much about Chantry teaching, but he knew the story of how the Blights began. He was surprised – though perhaps he shouldn't be – to learn that Tevinter's Chantry was telling a different story. "Who does the Imperium say started the Blight?" he asked curiously.

"You know how it is. 'Not us.' " Dorian said, and made a frustrated noise. "They say darkspawn were always there; magisters and the Blight aren't even related. Is that a surprise? No one wants to admit they shit the bed." Aldaron frowned a little at the analogy, accurate though it was. "But if Corypheus is one of the magisters who entered the Black City and he's darkspawn… What other explanation is there?"

So the Imperial Chantry lied to hide their mistakes. Put in that light it really was not surprising at all. He wondered how many people actually bought their version of the story, though? Had Dorian? Was that why he was so upset? "Why does that make you angry?" Aldaron asked.

"Because the Imperium is my home," Dorian replied, and Aldaron watched all the anger drain out of him in an instant. "I knew what I was taught couldn't be the whole truth, but I assumed there had to be a kernel of it. Somewhere. But no. It was us all along. We destroyed the world."

The expression on Dorian's face absolutely broke Aldaron's heart. He imagined learning something similar about his own people, and how painful that would be. He wanted to say something that would make the man feel better. "You didn't do anything. Those men did. A thousand years ago." Pretty words, just like Josephine had been teaching him. Pretty but empty.

"True," Dorian admitted, "Except that one of them is up and walking around right now. Not to mention I have idiot countrymen who would happily follow him down that path again." He sighed, composed himself again, and looked at Aldaron with that stare that saw through him so easily. "No one will thank me, whatever happens. No one will thank you, either. You know that, yes?"

Of course he knew that. Everyone outside the Inquisition hated him, Aldaron knew that. The Chantry, the Templars, Corypheus. Whatever the history books wrote about him, he would either be the Dalish elf that mucked everything up, or the hero whose race was conveniently never mentioned. But he wasn't doing this for them. He was doing this because he couldn't stand back and watch the world fall apart without doing something to help. And he could help. He could help more than anyone else. "That's not why I'm doing this."

A smile tugged at the corner of Dorian's mouth. "I knew there was something clever about you," he said knowingly. "All I know is this: Corypheus must be stopped. Men like him ruined my homeland. I won't stand by and let him ruin the world."

They were of a similar mind on that much. Dorian had always been vocal about his distaste for the Venatori, but perhaps Aldaron had been a little worried, somewhere in the subconscious back of his mind, that he wasn't so very different from his countrymen. Now he had no such doubts.

Dorian looked away from the Inquisitor then, back to whatever he had been doing before, but almost as an after thought looked over his shoulder again. "Oh, and congratulations on that whole leading-the-Inquisition thing, by the way," he said, turned away again before he could see the pink on Aldaron's cheeks.

"Dorian," the elf said before the mage could leave entirely.

"Yes?" Dorian stopped again and looked back at him once more.

What had he been planning to say? The words suddenly all stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to calm down, forced the mask back into place. He had to say something, though.

"Have you been to see Alexius?" Aldaron asked, and cringed inwardly in regret. Dorian was already in a bad mood from their conversation, surely he was just going to make it worse.

He knew they had dragged the magister out of Haven and had found a suitably secure location for him here in Skyhold, though from what he knew the man had made absolutely no attempt to escape. They were going to ask Aldaron what to do with him soon. Probably as soon as anyone could spare a thought from making sure Skyhold was actually habitable. He had not forgotten that the man had once been Dorian's friend, and that would make things difficult. What Alexius had done in Redcliffe was horrible, but if Aldaron understood correctly, the man had really only wanted to save his son. He had been scared, and he had made several terribly bad decisions as a result. Aldaron knew the feeling.

Dorian hesitated before answering, and did not meet Aldaron's eyes. "I saw him before they locked him up. He looked… despondent. Broken. Not the man I remember, nor the one I want to."

Aldaron nodded in understanding. He had not known Alexius before, but Dorian seemed to have had a high opinion of him at one point. That had to count for something.

"I suppose the Inquisition will judge him eventually," the man continued thoughtfully. "I wonder if there's any chance they'll show him mercy." Dorian had to know Aldaron would be the one to make that decision, yet he was speaking so impersonally. Was this his way of asking for mercy without having to outright say it? "He hardly deserves it, but for Felix's sake, I can't help hoping there's something left of the man I once knew."

Aldaron chewed the inside of his cheek but forced his expression to remain calm. It was true, Alexius had tried, and very nearly succeeded, to kill him. Someone else might have put him to death immediately. But there had been enough death already. "The decision won't be made lightly," the Inquisitor assured him.

Dorian turned toward him and offered a small smile. "That means quite a bit, coming from you," he replied.

Aldaron swallowed heavily over the sudden pounding of his heart. He hoped that whatever decision was made, it was something Dorian approved of. He regretted bringing up the topic now. The pain in Dorian's voice when he spoke of Alexius was so obvious, and Aldaron did not want to cause him any further hurt. There were more important considerations than Dorian's feelings, though, and that made the decision harder than ever. "I should go," Aldaron said, before he wound up making promises he could not keep.

"Naturally," was all Dorian said before Aldaron fled down the stairs, mind racing.


	6. Letters

"I like a good reanimated corpse as much as the next man, certainly, but this is just excessive." Dorian was unhappy. He had made that abundantly clear many times over. He complained about the rain, he complained about the mud, he complained about the smell.

"You're lucky you missed the Fallow Mire, then," Varric commented. "Imagine this, but with twice as many corpses and Avvar barbarians constantly trying to kill you. Whole place smelled like rotting flesh and wet dog."

"I'd really rather not, thank you."

This was supposed to be easy. Go to Crestwood, find Hawke's Grey Warden contact, and then back to Skyhold to plan their next move. Instead they had fought their way through the walking dead, red templars, bandits, and demons. Now they were slogging through the muddy, waterlogged, dank caves below the emptied lake in search of the rift that was likely causing all the trouble.

Nothing was ever easy, was it?

Dorian was unhappy and extremely vocal about it. Varric and Blackwall were obviously miserable as well, though they were quieter about it. Aldaron felt absolutely wretched, but he did not show it at all. The Inquisitor's façade was better than the Herald's had ever been. It had to be. There was a lot more riding on his shoulders now.

"We're almost there," the Inquisitor reported, interrupting the grumbling of his companions. He could always tell when they were close to a rift. They made his hand hurt. The anchor would ache, then throb, and burst to life with that familiar green glow and tearing pain. He was following the pain like a homing beacon through the maze of passages. Surprisingly, it worked.

This rift was bigger than the ones they usually stumbled across. It had to be to be causing this much trouble. The room was already crawling with demons when the Inquisitor and his small band showed up, and more kept pouring out before Aldaron had a chance to seal the rift. By the time they cleared out the room enough for the anchor to work the elf was exhausted. He had to brace both arms on his knees to catch his breath and to keep his hand from shaking. Closing rifts always hurt the worst, and this one had been particularly bad.

"You alright, Inquisitor?" Blackwall asked from somewhere behind him.

"Fine," the Inquisitor replied. He was not injured. Nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises at least. He took a deep breath and straightened, clenching his left hand as hard as he could to try and hide the trembling. "Let's get out of here."

Finding their way out was a little more difficult than getting in. Aldaron did not have the mark to guide him this time, and he hadn't exactly been paying the best attention on the way in. But they did eventually find a ladder and a passage that lead back out to the hills overlooking the village.

It had stopped raining, and the clouds were clearing. On the horizon the last reds and oranges of the sunrise were just disappearing. Behind him Aldaron was vaguely aware of his companion's happy murmuring at the chance to dry out, and Dorian wringing out the edge of his robe.

"We should go meet Hawke, now that's dealt with," the Inquisitor said. He was exhausted, of course, but felt they had delayed enough already. Josephine would say it was rude to keep the man waiting on them any longer.

"Are you quite serious?" Dorian asked in disbelief.

"It's why we came here in the first place," the Inquisitor reminded him.

"Yes, I have not forgotten," Dorian replied, leaning maybe a little too heavily on his staff to make it look casual, "But we've also just spent all night – literally all night – fighting demons and corpses."

"Sparkler's got a point," Varric agreed. "I think we could all use a bit of rest after all this. A bite to eat, maybe some dry clothes. Hawke's been here days already, what's another few hours? He'll be fine."

Aldaron looked between his three companions, frowning in concentration. He was still trying to get the hang of this leadership thing. It didn't help that every spare moment at Skyhold was spent with Josephine or Leliana or Vivienne or some combination of the three being lectured about the ins and outs of politics and noble houses and proper behavior. It was overwhelming and confusing. He thought that getting away for a while would be a relief, but it wasn't. There was not less to think about outside of Skyhold, only different things, and it all got muddled up in his head until he wasn't sure what he was expected to do anymore.

But he was exhausted. And they were all exhausted. And maybe this was the wrong decision. Maybe the Inquisitor should not let his followers question his decisions. But Aldaron really liked the sound of a nap and some dry boots. "Alright," the Inquisitor eventually relented. "We'll head back to the fort after speaking with the mayor. With luck the scouts will have it cleaned up by now."

Of course the mayor of Crestwood was not to be found, only a letter confirming what they had already suspected. Aldaron was disgusted and horrified. How could someone willfully kill so many people? But the Inquisitor understood the man's reasoning, at least, even if he did not approve of the methods. How many innocents had died by this man's hand? Was the end result worth the cost? Such thoughts kept the Inquisitor silent as they returned to the newly captured Caer Bronach.

Their arrival found the fort bustling with newly arrived scouts and soldiers, anyone who had been in the area quickly rerouted to secure the keep until more permanent postings could be established. The bodies of the previous inhabitants had been removed, the blood washed away, and tents set up in the main courtyard. The small party must look terrible for the looks they are getting, and how they are immediately being offered food and rest. They do look terrible, actually. Aldaron is soaked to the bone, his boots caked in mud, his clothes spattered with blood or whatever demons have. Behind him the others are in a similar state, Varric is fussing over Bianca and Dorian keeps self-consciously fixing his hair. As soon as he is pointed to a tent Aldaron slips inside and is barely able to strip out of his sodden clothes before crawling into the bedroll and falling into exhausted sleep.

Unfortunately the sun was shining bright, the tent fabric not enough to keep it out, and Aldaron had never been able to sleep in the daytime. He managed only a few hours of rest before his body insisted that he should be up and doing something, not sleeping the day away. His clothes were still damp, but he pulled them on anyway for lack of anything else to wear, and left the boots sitting outside the tent where hopefully the sun would help them dry faster. Aldaron was still not a fan of shoes in general, though he supposed they had certain benefits, but absolutely could not stand them when wet. He combed through his hair with his fingers, pulling at any knots and pushing stray locks out of his eyes before stepping out of the tent.

Movement in the keep had lessened somewhat, but Aldaron could see there was still a lot of work to do to bring this place up to Inquisition standards – Cullen's standards. Aldaron moved through the camp, offering a polite smile and a nod for anyone who greeted him. He found the make-shift kitchen and stole an apple and half a loaf of bread before retreating to the battlements for the small amount of solitude they would grant.

The countryside here was actually rather beautiful when it wasn't swarming in demons and bandits. Crestwood was probably a very nice village when it wasn't struggling to survive. All of this trouble, all the people dead, because of one fade rift. It only made Aldaron more certain that he had to do everything he could to bring peace and stability back to the world.

Aldaron had already devoured the apple and half the bread when he heard someone climbing up the ladder behind him. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see Dorian's head appear over the top of the wall, once again perfectly groomed. "Ah, there you are," the man said, and pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the wall. "One would think you'd been kidnapped by assassins the way that scout was going on."

Aldaron frowned. He hadn't meant to slip off unnoticed or make anyone worry about him. "Are they looking for me? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything is perfectly under control. Breakfast – or lunch, I suppose – is prepared and… I see you have already found it," Dorian cut himself off when he saw the food in the Inquisitor's hand, "Marvelous. I climbed this ladder for no reason."

"Sorry," Aldaron said. He really hadn't meant to cause any inconvenience, and yet here it was. But why was Dorian here to tell him this? "They sent you to tell me to eat breakfast?"

Dorian scoffed, "Hardly. Can you picture me taking orders from a cook?" He clapped a hand to his chest in over-dramatic horror. "Rather, no one quite knew where you'd run off to, but as I am so very clever, I know that our dear Inquisitor seems to enjoy his solitude from time to time, but he is not so stupid as to run off on his own. Through deductive reasoning and process of elimination, I concluded that you had to be somewhere up here. And here you are. I was right."

It seemed like Dorian knew him better than Aldaron had expected. Or knew his habits, at least. Of course, it was not the first time that the mage had found him purposefully isolating himself. "That is… very perceptive of you."

"I am probably far too perceptive for my own good, to be quite honest. And I should be offended that you haven't noticed before," Dorian replied. "But I suppose you have more important things to occupy your mind, Inquisitor."

"Aldaron," the elf blurted out before he even realized he was speaking.

Dorian's eyebrows crept up toward his hairline. "I'm sorry?" he asked in confusion.

Aldaron tried very hard not to blush from embarrassment, or to stammer. "My name," he clarified, "Aldaron. No one says it anymore, I feel like I might forget." He had not heard it spoken aloud since Haven, and then only rarely. Now it was always "Inquisitor" or "your worship" and if he was lucky "Lavellan", but never his given name.

"Do you want them to?" Dorian asked slowly.

For a moment Aldaron does not understand the question, and then he realizes that if every soldier, every scout, every mage, every servant called him by name it would be too much to bear. He hid behind the mask of Inquisitor, and was only able to do so by remaining distant from all but a few people. The Inquisitor was not Aldaron, he was a person who was confident and brave and made decisions that impacted the world, who showed no weakness to his followers. Aldaron was a lost Dalish hunter who had stumbled into things he did not understand, who would rather be climbing trees than leading armies. "No, not all of them," the elf replied softly. "But you could."

"And to what do I owe such an honor?" Dorian asked.

The longer he was the Inquisitor, the more he feared that Aldaron was slipping away. Someday he's going to put on the mask and he wouldn't be able to take it off. He needed someone who understood, so here he was spilling his guts to Dorian for no good reason. Like always. But he couldn't say that. "We traveled through time together," he said instead, "I think that earns you something. Besides," Aldaron hesitated a moment, this really was spilling his guts and he didn't know if it was a good idea at all, "I like you."

Dorian stared at him for a moment, and then grinned the widest grin that Aldaron had ever seen on his face. "Of course, there is so much about me to like." Aldaron was unable to help the way the corner of his mouth quirked up the tiniest bit. Dorian noticed, of course, and smiled even wider if that was possible. "Well, Aldaron," he said the name in a way that made the elf's heart beat faster, "There is food to be had if you desire, everyone is rested and dry, and we are prepared to follow wherever you might lead, at your order." Dorian finished by bowing with a completely excessive amount of flourish. The sort of thing that coming from foreign dignitaries made him uncomfortable, but with Dorian still smirking at him it was difficult to keep from laughing.

"Very well," Aldaron replied, bit the inside of his cheek to try and keep his composure. "You can tell the others I'll be down shortly, and we'll head out."

"As you wish," Dorian nodded curtly and turned to climb back down off the battlements.

Aldaron turned around again and waited as long as he could manage before he simply couldn't stop the foolish grin from spreading across his face any longer.

* * *

><p>Crestwood really was a rather nice place when it was not swarming with demons and walking corpses and red templars and bandits and dragons. And without such dangerous distractions the rest of their business in the region went swimmingly. Or at least as well as could be expected.<p>

They met and spoke at length with Hawke's Grey Warden contact – a man named Stroud who seemed trustworthy enough. Aldaron likely learned more Grey Warden secrets than he was ever meant to know, but with the state of the world that hardly seemed important. And if Corypheus was somehow controlling the minds of Wardens then that was something the Inquisition needed to know so they could plan accordingly. It was a lot of information to take in, but Aldaron remembered it as best he could in order to report back to his council at Skyhold. There were plans to be made; it was a long journey to the Western Approach.

That was the first thing Aldaron did when they returned to Skyhold (after changing out of the clothes he'd been wearing for nearly a week, of course). After days on the road and hours in war council the Inquisitor was ready for a nap, or a really long bath. He did not appreciate being accosted as soon as he stepped into the great hall.

Aldaron had mixed feelings about Mother Giselle. She was nice, she obviously had good intentions, and she had been really very accommodating and patient while he recovered from the avalanche. But she would not shut up about Andraste and the Maker and Aldaron felt like every conversation with her she was trying to convert him.

"Inquisitor, if I could have a moment of your time?" the woman asked, as polite and modest as always, and yet Aldaron wanted to refuse her.

"What is it?" he asked instead, and plastered on his best diplomatic expression.

"I have news regarding one of your… companions. The Tevinter," Giselle said tactfully, but not without a bit of a sneer on the last word.

Aldaron was well aware that many people were distrustful of Dorian, and considering his homeland's history it was probably with good reason. But the mage had done nothing to earn such suspicion from Aldaron, and if the Inquisitor trusted him, that should be good enough for everyone else, shouldn't it? "Is that a note of distaste I detect, Mother Giselle?" he asked, trying to sound authoritative.

To her credit, the woman looked properly apologetic. "I… admit his presence here makes me uncomfortable, Inquisitor, but my feelings are of no importance. I have been in contact with his family: House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?"

Aldaron wished he could say that he was, but his conversations with Dorian had not ventured into that aspect of his past as of yet. He was aware of Dorian's time apprenticing under Alexius, and of his general distaste for Tevinter society, but little more. "I've not spoken to Dorian about much of his past," he was forced to admit.

"They've asked to arrange a meeting," Mother Giselle explained. "Quietly, without telling him. They fear it's the only way he'll come. Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man, I had hoped…"

Hoped what? That he might order Dorian to go meet with his family? Kick him out of the Inquisition and send him back to Tevinter? No doubt that was what the woman wanted. "Just what kind of 'meeting' do they have in mind?" he asked. He liked Dorian, and would like the mage to stay with the Inquisition. He would not willingly send him into a pit of vipers.

"I believe they just want to talk," Mother Giselle assured, "To understand why Dorian felt he had to come here. Somewhere private. Away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter. You make them nervous, I think. They don't understand why he's with the Inquisition. They want him to come home."

That sounded reasonable enough. Away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter sounded good. And as long as it was just talking… "What happens if Dorian doesn't agree?"

"Hopefully that will be the end of it. If not… Well, that is why you should be there," Mother Giselle said.

Aldaron frowned. That meant she expected they would do more than talk if Dorian did not agree to go back with his family. He didn't like the sound of that. If Dorian wanted to stay here, then he should be able to. Aldaron would not throw him out, or let anyone drag him away without his consent. But something about this didn't make sense. "Why would his family contact you?" the Inquisitor asked.

"Because they don't know you, Inquisitor," the woman said patiently. "I'm not of the Imperial Chantry, but they know what I represent. These are parents concerned about the welfare of their son. How could I not do whatever possible?" Even if it meant lying to Dorian? Tricking him? "I would speak to the young man myself, but… he does not care for me."

Neither did Aldaron, but he had to be polite and diplomatic with everyone he met, Dorian did not have such restrictions. "If you think I'm going to trick Dorian into meeting his family…"

He was cut off as Mother Giselle sighed, "I feared you might say that," she murmured. "The family retainer will meet the young man at the Redcliffe tavern to take him onward. If he truly does not wish this reunion, he can always end the matter there. I pray you change your mind, Inquisitor. Perhaps their letter will persuade you." She handed over the folded parchment and took her leave with a small bow.

Aldaron stared down at the letter for a long moment before opening it. He read it. He probably shouldn't have. These matters were probably something that Dorian would prefer to deal with in private, without so many middlemen. But he could not help himself, he was curious. Unfortunately the letter was too vague and answered none of his lingering questions. It was wrong to trick Dorian, though. He would let the man make his own decision now as to whether or not he wanted to meet his family. If he didn't, a message could be sent to the retainer in Dorian's stead.

Still holding the letter in both hands Aldaron headed to the library, when Dorian seemed to spend most of his time. If he was not still resting after their trip to Crestwood, Aldaron expected to find him there.

His instincts were correct, but Dorian was reading something, seemingly engrossed in whatever book he had picked up this time. Aldaron immediately hid the letter behind his back and hesitated. Should he interrupt? But this was important, and the longer he put it off the worse it would be.

"Anything interesting?" the elf asked as he approached, trying to sound casual.

Dorian looked up, his face solemn. "A letter regarding Felix. Alexius' son."

Aldaron felt his heart stop for a moment. This was a bad time. He should not have interrupted. He should not be here. They had not spoken of Alexius. When the Inquisitor sentenced him to serve the remaining mages (under heavy supervision of course) Dorian had been noticeably absent from the hearing.

"He went to the Magesterium," Dorian continued, unaware of Aldaron's momentary panic. "Stood on the senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, I'm informed. No news of the reaction, but everyone back home is talking. Felix always was as good as his word."

Aldaron's heart sank even further. "Was?"

"He's dead," Dorian said, "The blight caught up with him."

"I'm sorry," Aldaron said instinctively, but he meant it. He had not known Felix, met him only briefly, but he had seemed a good man, had been very brave to stand against his father the way he had.

"He was ill, and thus on borrowed time anyhow," Dorian shrugged, as though that was supposed to make it any better.

"That does not mean you can't regret his death," Aldaron said softly. He barely knew the man, and he understood that. Dorian had been close with him, or so he understood.

"I know," the mage sighed, let himself crumple a little bit. "Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father's study. 'Don't get into trouble on my behalf,' I'd tell him. 'I like trouble,' he'd say. Tevinter could use more mages like him, those who put the good of others above themselves."

"You make it sound like he was a better person than you," Aldaron said. Felix had seemed a good man, a very good man, but Dorian was as well.

"What a mad thing to say. Few people are better than I," Dorian made a valiant attempt at a laugh, but it faded quickly. "Very well. A better person, clearly. Not nearly as handsome." He looked down at the letter in his hands for a moment, then back up at Aldaron with a small smile, "Thankfully he wasn't the only decent sort kicking around Thedas."

The way that he said it, and the way he was looking at Aldaron, the elf wasn't entirely sure if Dorian was talking about himself, or about the Inquisitor. He definitely considered Dorian 'decent', to say the least. Just as good a person as Felix, even if he refused to believe it.

Aldaron thought he was taking the news of Felix's death incredibly well, also. Of course, it had been expected, so perhaps that lessened the blow somewhat. It still made bringing up this other letter even more difficult. Dorian was already in a bad mood, this would surely just make it worse, and that was the opposite of what Aldaron wanted. He would rather do something to cheer him up, but this had to be take care of. "Dorian… There's another letter you need to see," he began slowly.

"A letter?" Dorian asked, and seemed to push all of his sadness aside, replacing it easily with the smile and good humor that Aldaron was used to. "Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?"

"Not quite," Aldaron wished it were. That would probably have put Dorian in a good mood. "It's from you father."

The smile was gone in an instant. "From my father. I see," his voice was flat. "And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?"

"A meeting," Aldaron said, and it was painful. This would only end badly, he was certain of it.

"Let me see this letter," Dorian said stiffly, and held out a hand. Aldaron handed it over without question. Dorian practically tore the thing open and Aldaron watched his eyes scan over the words on the page. " 'I know my son,' " he scoffed when he finished reading, "What my father knows about me would barely fill a thimble. This is so typical," he ground out, frustrated and gesturing widely, "I'm willing to bet this 'retainer' is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter."

If all the stories about Tevinter were true that would not be a surprise, but Dorian always insisted that they were exaggerations. "You think your father would actually do that?" Aldaron asked.

"No," Dorian acknowledged, "Although I wouldn't put it past him. Let's go. Let's meet this so-called 'family retainer.' If it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone, you're good at that." That was probably the only thing that Aldaron was good at. "If it's not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his 'wits end.' "

Aldaron was actually rather surprised by Dorian's reaction. He seemed not just angry, but furious. The man had never spoken about his family before, though, so Aldaron could not help wondering why. How did he say this tactfully? "There seems to be bad blood between you and your family."

Dorian actually laughed, and Aldaron worried for a moment he had said something wrong. "Interesting turn of phrase," the mage commented. "We've never talked about my family before. They're not happy with my choices, you see, nor I theirs."

"What choices? Leaving Tevinter?" Aldaron asked. Being completely estranged like this would have been unheard of in his clan, so Aldaron did not understand how someone could be so angry with their family. There were arguments, certainly, but Aldaron had never known someone to cut all ties like this. Things were very different where Dorian came from, though, and he knew that.

"That too," Dorian said, but did not elaborate. Whatever choices Dorian had been talking about, that was not one of them. What else then? Politics? Blood magic? Slavery? That was all anyone talked about when they spoke of Tevinter. Aldaron was curious, full of questions that he knew he had no right to ask.

"Let's go meet this retainer, then," Aldaron offered. The least he could do was make sure that Dorian did not face this alone. "We can leave at first light, I'll tell Josephine." They had only just returned to Skyhold that morning, after all, he expected that both of them would appreciate a proper night's sleep in a proper bed.

"That sounds good to me," Dorian agreed. "I wonder how much my father paid this man to wait around just in case I showed?" he pondered thoughtfully, "We'll find out soon enough, I suppose."


	7. Family

The sun was barely a glimmer of red over the mountaintops when Dorian rolled out of bed. It was an absolutely criminal hour of the morning, when no sane person should be awake. Then again, Dorian had slept little the night before. He had spent most of the night awake and staring at the ceiling while his mind quite uncooperatively went over every horrible thing that could happen that day. When the sky began to lighten he gave up trying to sleep (they were set to leave soon anyway) and resigned himself to facing the day, whatever horrors it might bring.

By the time he made his way down to the courtyard, stifling a yawn and doing his best to ignore the nervous roiling of his stomach, the Inquisitor was already there, dressed for travel and stroking the nose of that enormous deer creature he insisted on riding. Beside him, a scout in Inquisition armor held the reigns of Dorian's horse and another, both already saddled and ready.

"I wasn't aware we would be having company, Inquisitor," Dorian commented, his voice a hollow attempt it's usual silvery tone.

The Inquisitor – Aldaron, he corrected himself somewhat giddily – looked over his shoulder to meet Dorian's eyes in a way that made the man's stomach flip with a completely different sort of nerves. "Cullen insisted," he explained.

It was nearly a full day's ride to Redcliffe if they had no delays. The roads out of the mountains were generally well traveled by Inquisition troops, and with relative peace brought back to the Hinterlands their trip would probably be uneventful. The Inquisitor can face down monsters and demons, but he can't take a day trip without supervision. Ridiculous. Or maybe it was Dorian they didn't trust. That seemed more likely. Did they expect this was all an elaborate rouse to kidnap the Inquisitor and spirit him away to Corypheus' hideout for a slow and painful death? Actually, someone probably did think that. Dorian wouldn't be surprised.

"Well, the more the merrier, as you Southerners say," Dorian replied, despite not finding anything merry about it. He expected this entire trip to be dreadful. The one bright point was supposed to be getting the rare chance to spend time with Aldaron. The elf was so stuffy around Skyhold. All straight backed and serious faced; never smiled, never laughed. But Dorian was beginning to figure out that if you got him alone, the Inquisitor let down his walls a bit. Dorian had even managed to get half a smile out of him once, a fact he was very proud of.

"We should be going, Inquisitor," the scout interrupted, and pushed reins into Dorian's hands, watching him with narrowed eyes. She clearly did not like him much, perhaps one of the conspiracy theorists herself. Well, he supposed they had to send someone who wouldn't hesitate to knife him in the back at the slightest hint of blood magic.

"Of course," the Inquisitor nodded. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Dorian replied. Could one really ever be fully prepared to meet their family's hired goons? Probably not. And Dorian was quite convinced that the 'retainer' was just that. His father wasn't stupid enough to think that some paper-pusher could convince him to run back home.

He was right about the trip being uneventful. They ran into no trouble on the road, save a short delay for a farmer to drive a herd of sheep across the road. Didn't even stop for lunch, just travel rations and a flask of wine that Dorian probably drank a little too quickly. His mind kept coming up with new and unique ways this meeting could go horribly wrong. He vacillated between burning anger and gut-wrenching nervousness. Anger at the fresh reminder of everything his father had done to him, a lifetime of disappointment. Nervous that they would walk into a tavern full of mercenaries ready to knock him over the head and drag him home so his father could finish what he'd started. But if that happened, at least the Inquisitor was here. Aldaron would have his back, right? The elf had gotten himself out of worse situations than that.

By the time they rode into Redcliffe village in the mid-afternoon Dorian was really wishing for some more wine. Or something stronger. He dawdled and delayed, saw that the horses were tended, suggested that they go shopping. The scout – he never had gotten her name – was glaring at him, but Aldaron was being infinitely patient. At least Dorian liked to think he was being patient. That was sort of the same face he always had in public; emotionless and unreadable, but pleasant enough that his silence wouldn't be considered rude.

Dorian could not delay forever, though. Eventually he had to face this. He marched up to the tavern door with determination, then faltered as he reached for the handle.

"Wait out here," the Inquisitor was instructing their stalwart chaperone, "I'll call if we need you."

"Of course, Your Worship."

Dorian did not need to look to know that she was still glaring at him suspiciously.

"Let's go, Dorian." Aldaron's voice brought him out of his momentary stupor. The words were an order, but the tone was gentle. Dorian grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open.

As soon as he stepped inside he knew that something was wrong. "No one's here. This doesn't bode well." His eyes darted around, expecting someone to leap from the shadows at any moment. He almost wished they had, because the voice he heard next simultaneously sent a chill down his spine and reignited the furious anger he'd felt upon first reading that letter. "Father."

* * *

><p>He should not be here. This was too personal, too private. Aldaron felt like he was intruding. It wasn't really his business, was it? He should probably go, leave Dorian to speak to his father in private. But he didn't. The man was so obviously nervous the whole trip to Redcliffe, and then the raw emotion in his voice, the way he kept glancing at Aldaron. He understood now why Dorian seemed to see through him, to understand him so well. Dorian wore a mask, too, albeit one less rigid than the Inquisitor's. Dorian hid behind his narcissism and his carefree good humor while the world fell down around them. Now he was letting Aldaron see behind to the betrayed and heartbroken man inside. Just like Aldaron had shown Dorian in Redcliffe, and in Haven.<p>

He couldn't just abandon him. Not even after things calmed down. Aldaron just retreated to the far side of the tavern and tried not to eavesdrop while Dorian finally spoke calmly to his father.

It probably wasn't his place to push them to talking as he had, but family was very important where Aldaron came from. Before all this, the clan was all he knew. Now he had been away from them for months, the longest he had ever been away from his family, and it was possible he might never see them again. The thought tore at his heart, and he wouldn't wish the same pain on anyone. Maybe someday, when the wound was less fresh, Dorian would want to reconnect with his family. Aldaron wanted him to have the chance, at least.

He kept an eye on the two men at the far side of the room and tried not to be obvious about it. It felt like ages he stood there, hovering by the window and glancing over at Dorian every few seconds. Finally the two men stepped apart, shared a few last words, and then his father left, letting the door swing shut behind him. Dorian stayed where he was for a long moment, staring at the closed door, and then sat down heavily at the nearest table.

Without thinking, Aldaron left his spot by the window and went to his side. He knew that none of this had been easy for Dorian, and he wanted to help, but he didn't know what to say.

"He says we're alike, too much pride," Dorian murmured before Aldaron could even open his mouth. He was staring down at the wood of the tabletop, apparently deep in thought. "Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I'm not certain. I don't know if I can forgive him."

"He tried to… Change you?" Aldaron asked hesitantly. It was wrong to pry, he knew that, but he wanted to understand. What had Dorian's father done to drive his son away like this?

"Out of desperation," Dorian replied with a sigh, and looked up at Aldaron. "I wouldn't put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out. I left."

Aldaron could not hide his shock. He would resort to blood magic just because his son wouldn't marry who he wanted? Of course he would, the Inquisitor reminded himself, this was Tevinter they were talking about. "Can blood magic actually do that?" he asked instead, because it seemed less offensive, and because he really didn't know. Aldaron understood very little about magic, and even less so about blood magic. That was probably common knowledge by now.

"Maybe," Dorian shrugged with one shoulder. "It could also have left me a drooling vegetable." His eyes drifted back down to the tabletop. "It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal." He still sounded so broken up about it. Aldaron found the idea absolutely horrifying. No wonder Dorian wanted nothing to do with his family, if this ritual could have killed him, or worse. "Part of me has always hoped he didn't really want to go through with it. If he had…" Dorian continued softly. "I can't even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn't like that Dorian."

Aldaron doubted that he would, either. Just another arrogant, bigoted Tevinter noble; exactly the sort of person Dorian hated. Maybe he shouldn't have made him come here. Maybe it would have been better to send the man away without talking to him. "Are you alright?" Aldaron asked earnestly.

"No. Not really," Dorian replied, much to Aldaron's surprise. Dorian obviously wasn't alright, but he had never expected him to admit it. Then he pushed his chair back and stood up. "Thank you for bringing me out here. It wasn't what I expected, but… it's something." He turned and looked at Aldaron, a wry, self-deprecating smile on his lips. "Maker must know what you think of me now, after that whole display."

"I don't think less of you," Aldaron was quick to assure him. He doubted there was very much that could make him think less of Dorian, especially after all this. He thought Dorian was… incredibly brave, and one of the most determined people he had ever met. "More, if possible."

Dorian looked surprised to hear that. He let out a breath of laughter. "The things you say," he murmured, shaking his head.

"I mean it," Aldaron insisted. He thought the absolute world of Dorian. No one else in the Inquisition seemed to understand him the way Dorian did. They all had such expectations of who and what he should be. No one else tried to get to know the man behind the Inquisitor. Only Dorian. And now, or perhaps from the start, he wasn't so afraid to let Dorian in. He wasn't afraid that Dorian would think less of him if he knew that inside the Inquisitor was frightened and confused and so out of his element that sometimes he felt like he was going mad. Dorian would understand. Because Dorian was the same way, wasn't he?

"My father never understood. Living a lie… it festers inside of you, like poison," Dorian sighed. Aldaron liked to think he understood. The Inquisitor was not him, but was slowly taking over every aspect of his life. It wasn't exactly the same, certainly, but perhaps it was similar enough. "You have to fight for what's in your heart," he said with determination. The determination that had drawn Aldaron to him in the first place.

"I agree," the elf murmured, and took a step toward Dorian to… he wasn't sure what. He just wanted to be close to him, suddenly. Touch him, hold him. Because he understood, and Dorian understood. His eyes met Dorian's and suddenly he knew exactly what was going to happen. His heart leapt in his chest, his breath caught in his throat, and then Dorian's lips were on his, hands on his waist. Aldaron's body moved without thinking, pressing closer to him, arms moving up around Dorian's shoulders, fingers carding in his hair. The man's lips were soft against his own and his mustache tickled. It was strange, but he liked it. He liked it a lot more than he would have thought. If he had thought about kissing Dorian before, that is. Which he definitely hadn't. At all. Ever.

Okay, maybe a little. Once.

Dorian pulled away much too soon for Aldaron's liking, and left the elf somewhat dazed. The man certainly knew how to kiss. Not that Aldaron had a lot to compare it with.

"I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor," Dorian's voice was barely above a whisper, low and breathy and accompanied by a smirk that made Aldaron's stomach do back flips. His brain had stopped working, he couldn't think of a single thing to say in response. He wanted to kiss him again, but Dorian was already stepping away. "At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It's been that sort of day." He was already heading for the tavern's untended bar. "Join me, if you've a mind."

Aldaron watched him until the sound of the door opening pulled him back to the present. "Your Worship?" They must have been suspiciously quiet in here for too long. He turned slowly toward the scout in the door, still somewhat dazed. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," the Inquisitor answered automatically. Everything was more than alright. Heat was suddenly rising to his cheeks again, his ears burned. "I think we'll be staying the night. If you could find us some accommodations? Nothing fancy, but a proper bed would be nice." If Dorian truly intended on drinking himself into a stupor, and Aldaron wouldn't blame him right now, then he did not want the man sleeping on the ground in a tent. He imagined that would only make the hangover that much worse.

The woman nodded curtly and left, letting the door fall shut behind her. When she was gone Aldaron turned back toward the bar. Dorian had found a bottle of something amber colored and was pouring himself a liberal serving.

Now able to think clearly again, Aldaron hesitated. They had kissed, but what happened now? What did it mean for them? Aldaron did not have a lot of prior experience in relationships to draw from. Would this change things? Was Dorian expecting anything? Aldaron chewed the inside of his lip in concern for a long moment before slowly making his way to the bar and sliding into the seat beside Dorian's. The man looked over at him while he took an experimental sip of his drink. Then he reached across the bar, plucked up another cup, and poured Aldaron a drink as well.

"What are we drinking to?" Aldaron asked. He picked up the cup and sniffed at it – whiskey – then took a small sip. It wasn't pleasant.

"Warm family reunions," Dorian replied, tapping his cup against Aldaron's. The elf didn't reply, but took another sip of his drink out of respect. He certainly understood why Dorian was in a bad mood, why he was probably drinking to forget. They sat in companionable silence for a while, Dorian drinking, Aldaron turning his cup around in his hands.

"Now that you know all of my darkest secrets I think it's only fair that I learn some of yours," Dorian spoke, to break the silence before it became awkward.

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about your family," Dorian requested, much to Aldaron's surprise. "You've met mine, dreadful as it is, I hope yours is rather more cheerful. You're… Dalish? Is that the correct word here?"

"Dalish is the correct word everywhere," Aldaron told him, and frowned a little. What sort of question was that?

"Ah, my apologies," Dorian said, ducked his head shallowly and stared down into his cup. "We don't have Dalish clans coming north. For obvious reasons." Obvious reasons indeed. Reasons that they had notably avoided talking about before. The reasons for that were probably obvious as well. Aldaron did not want to know. He was probably happier not knowing.

"You want to know about my family?" Aldaron asked, quickly changing the subject before it got any more awkward. Not that the subject could be avoided forever, but Aldaron was happy to live in ignorant bliss for a little longer.

"Yes," Dorian replied with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. Probably just as eager to change the topic of conversation. "All the sordid details. Mother, father, hoard of intolerable siblings?"

"I have one sibling," Aldaron told him, watching as Dorian topped off his drink. "A younger sister. She's twelve. Wanted to apprentice with the craftsmaster when I left, but she's probably changed her mind again by now. She can never stick with anything more than a couple weeks, it drives the Keeper insane." He smiled a little at the thought of his family, his clan. He missed them terribly, and wondered what they were doing now. There was little news out of the Free Marches and he didn't have much time for letter writing.

"You should do that more often," Dorian commented.

"Do what?"

"Smile," the mage clarified. "It suits you far more than that dour expression you usually wear. Yes, that's the one," he said, a little disappointed when the smile faded again.

"I suppose I haven't had much to smile about lately," Aldaron admitted. He had spent a long time being frightened and confused, and while the fear had lessened somewhat as he grew more familiar with the role he'd been thrust into, he was still wildly confused about a lot of things. Politics, mostly, and etiquette. Things that had never mattered before.

"That's a pity," Dorian replied. "It's a very nice smile. I'll have to work harder to see it more often."

Aldaron thought he probably would not mind if Dorian did. Generally he did find it easier to smile in the man's presence. It was easier to relax around Dorian. But he didn't know how to respond to such a statement, and before he could think of anything the tavern door opened again, interrupting his train of thought.

"Inquisitor?" the scout who had accompanied them this whole way interrupted.

"Yes?" Aldaron prompted, turning to face the woman.

"I've spoken with the tavern's owner. He says we can use the rooms here. The… Magister paid to have this place cleared out through the end of the week. We don't need to pay," she informed him.

Aldaron wondered idly how much it cost to rent out an entire tavern for a full week. Probably a lot more than he could guess. "Pay him for the night anyway," the Inquisitor instructed. That would be the polite thing to do. "And for the drinks," he added, nodding toward the now half-empty bottle of whiskey. Dorian was making quick progress.

"Of course, Your Worship," the scout answered curtly. "Will you need anything else?"

"Are the horses taken care of?" Aldaron asked.

"Yes, they are in the village stables. Your hart, too. I'm assured they'll be well tended."

If there was one thing that Aldaron liked about suddenly being a very important person, it was having someone else deal with things like this (strange as it was to have people waiting on his beck and call). Of course, a lot of the trouble he'd had dealing with innkeepers and stablemasters in the past had been because he was an elf. Now he probably wouldn't have the same problems. No one would dare call the Inquisitor a knife-ear; question his integrity or his ability to pay. "Thank you," he said honestly, "I think we'll be alright from here. You can… do whatever you like. We'll head back to Skyhold in the morning."

The scout nodded and gave a small bow before disappearing again. Aldaron had no idea where she was off to, but didn't care much, either. There was plenty of Inquisition presence in the area, he was not concerned for his or anyone's safety in Redcliffe. They would all be fine here for the night.

* * *

><p>Aldaron had never seen anyone drink this much in his life. Of course, alcohol was not terribly common among the Dalish. When you live on the road you tend to carry only the necessities. Alcohol was made in small batches and saved mostly for celebrations. Casual drinking was rare, and certainly never to the extent that Dorian was currently enjoying. The man had gone through almost an entire bottle of whiskey by himself, and then a bottle of wine. Aldaron had been nursing a single glass of that whiskey the entire evening. He could feel the effects already - the slight buzz that made it harder to concentrate but easier to smile - but Dorian could barely sit upright anymore. When the bottle of wine was empty and the man stood up in search of more he nearly fell over. A hand on the bar top and the other on his chair somehow managed to keep him upright, also Aldaron's hand on his arm.<p>

"I think you've had enough for tonight," Aldaron said, rising from his seat as well. "Let's get you to bed while you can still walk."

"Walking is overrated," Dorian complained.

"I can't carry you up the stairs, you're taller than me," Aldaron pointed out. Dorian sighed melodramatically. "Come on," the elf said, and pulled Dorian's arm around his shoulders as he began leading him toward the stairs.

"Yes, Your Worship," Dorian chuckled, and stumbled after Aldaron as he was pulled across the tavern floor. It was no easy task. There were chairs in the way and Dorian did not seem capable of walking in a straight line. He leaned against Aldaron probably more than was necessary, pressed a little too close to the elf's side to be considered appropriate.

"Do you have any idea how amazing you are?" Dorian's words were somewhat slurred and he leaned heavily on Aldaron as they reached the top of the stairs. "You don't, do you?" Aldaron didn't know what to say to that, so he stayed silent as he led Dorian to the closest room. He still didn't think he was anything special, despite all the evidence to the contrary. "Lord Inquisitor Lavellan," he slurred dramatically, swept his arm out to the side for added effect and nearly lost his balance. Aldaron pulled him back upright and through the door. There was only one bed in the room, but that was fine, he just needed to get Dorian into it. "Whole world bowing at your feet, but you…" he interrupted himself with a short laugh, "You don't even realize, do you? How much they all adore you." They were almost there, only a few more steps, but Dorian had stopped dead. With a hand on Aldaron's cheek he turned the elf's face toward him so that Aldaron had no choice but to meet his gaze. "How much I adore you." Before he could even process the words Dorian was kissing him again. His lips tasted like whiskey.

"You're drunk, Dorian," Aldaron said breathlessly when they parted.

Dorian smiled, "I am," he agreed, "I should be so more often. You should, too. Maybe… you'd smile more."

"You should go to bed," Aldaron mumbled, looking away as he felt his cheeks heat up.

"Will you join me?" Dorian leered and pulled the elf against his chest. Aldaron did not resist, but he blushed brighter and his ears burned. "When you blush your ears turn the most adorable shade of red, did you know that?"

"Dorian—," Aldaron did not get a chance to finish his stammered protest. Dorian pulled him toward the single bed and dropped back onto it, still holding Aldaron to his chest. He really should be resisting more than he was. He didn't want… Well, he did, but… He didn't know what he wanted, he was overwhelmed. This was all going much much too fast. He was too nervous, he wasn't ready. "Dorian," he protested again, pushing away from the man's chest. "You're drunk. You need to sleep."

"I will sleep," Dorian promised, and to Aldaron's great relief the man's eyelids were already drooping. "You should… stay."

"Dorian…" the words died on Aldaron's tongue. Dorian was already asleep. Aldaron pulled out of his slack grasp and scrambled away. In his rush the elf fell straight off the bed with an undignified thump and landed flat on his back, where he remained unmoving, staring at the ceiling while he waited for his heart to stop racing. This was a bit too much all at once. He liked Dorian, felt comfortable around him and felt like Dorian understood him better than anyone else here. That was what frightened him, actually. He liked Dorian too much.

Aldaron rolled over and climbed back to his feet. He needed fresh air. He needed to think.


	8. Understanding

Aldaron stepped out of the tavern and stood in the cool evening air, staring out toward the lake. The fresh air, the light breeze, the smell of the outdoors, already helped calm him down somewhat. It was easier to think outside, not cooped up in some too small room, there wasn't enough space for his thoughts in there.

He wasn't sure if this was a good idea. Getting involved with someone; letting himself feel too deeply.

Back home, back with his Clan, he would not have hesitated to pursue a relationship with someone he liked as much as Dorian. Things were less complicated back then, there were no expectations of him other than helping provide for the Clan. Here everything was complicated. Here he was the Inquisitor and the whole world was relying on him. Saving the world was hard, he shouldn't have any distractions, and Dorian was a distraction. A happy, glorious, beautiful distraction that he wanted so badly it hurt, needed to keep himself from going insane.

The Inquisitor in him said that there was no time for affection and romance and handsome mages with captivating smiles. There were so many things more important than his love life. But the Inquisitor was a symbol, and Aldaron was a person and didn't he deserve to be happy?

His mind kept running around in circles. It was frustrating. And part of him knew that the moment Dorian smiled at him again he would melt, forget about all his doubts and fears and let himself be swept up in it. It was difficult not to. It would probably be easier to push Dorian away now, before things got out of hand. But Aldaron had never been strong enough to do that.

* * *

><p>When Dorian woke it was with a pounding head, and aching back, and the sun directly in his eyes. He groaned unhappily and rolled over to bury his face in a pillow that smelled like Ferelden beer and body odor and immediately regretted the decision. He sat up just to get away from that smell, and had to fight down the urge to vomit. You'd think after all these years he would learn how to heal a hangover, but he hadn't. Not for the first time in his life he swore that he would definitely learn that someday.<p>

Miserable, he hunched over, braced his arms on his knees and held his head in his hands, trying to will the pain to go away. That was when he realized he was still fully dressed, and had no memory of leaving the bar.

He still remembered his father, though, unfortunately. But he also remembered Aldaron. Kissing Aldaron. Oh, he was very glad he remembered that. After all those weeks of flirting it was nice to have real confirmation that Aldaron was interested. The Inquisitor could be completely unreadable when he wanted to be. But kissing, that was a pretty undeniable 'yes'. And after he had seen Dorian at his absolute worst, even.

Speaking of their illustrious leader, where was he? And where was Dorian for that matter? Ah, yes, the tavern in Redcliffe. That explained the smell. Very slowly Dorian raised his head and looked around the room. There wasn't much to see, the only furniture in the room was this bed and a single table. By the door his pack and staff leaned against the wall. He wished there were a mirror, because he was quite certain he looked as terrible as he felt. Well, he would make do. He'd gotten good at that during his time with the Inquisition.

Only when his hangover had subsided somewhat and his hair and mustache were as neatly combed as could be did Dorian leave the room in search of his traveling companions. There was only one other door when he stepped into the hallway. It was open and a quick glance inside showed the room to be unoccupied, so he continued downstairs. There were a handful of people in the tavern's common room. Apparently with his father departed they could get back to business as usual, good for them. He spotted the Inquisition scout, their unwilling and completely unnecessary chaperone and bodyguard, seated at a table by the door, and since there was no sign of the Inquisitor he headed for her.

"The Inquisitor is outside," the woman said as he walked up, not taking her attention away from the plate of food in front of her. "He'll want to know you're awake so we can head back to Skyhold."

She still didn't like him. Well that was fine, he didn't need her to. "Thank you, I'll be certain to inform him immediately. Would you be so kind as to order me up a plate of whatever this place passes off as food? And perhaps something for this regrettable hangover?" He offered her his most charming smile (or at least the most charming smile he could manage) when she looked up from her own meal.

The woman stared at him a long moment before she sighed and pushed her chair back, "Very well."

"You have my sincere thanks," Dorian replied, and gave a small bow before heading for the door. Aldaron was the one he wanted to see anyway.

Outside the morning sun was shining, the birds were singing, it was the beginning of a beautiful day and Dorian absolutely hated it. How dare the world be so nice when he had such an awful hangover?

There was, of course, no sign of the Inquisitor. At least not where Dorian would have expected to find him. The elf was up a tree, sitting on a branch and leaning against the trunk while he stared out toward the lake. "What are you doing in a tree?" the man asked, more surprised than he probably would have been without the hangover.

Aldaron startled and looked down at him, black eyes wide. He looked briefly like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I… The view is better from up here."

The view? Dorian turned to look where Aldaron had been staring. He supposed it was pretty enough, if you liked that sort of thing. Dorian was not a big fan of nature in any of its forms, but Aldaron was an elf, after all, and he understood that nature was sort of their thing. When he turned back Aldaron swung his legs over the branch he was sitting on and hopped down to the ground as easily as though he were walking down stairs. "How are you feeling?" the elf asked.

"Like death warmed over, to be perfectly honest," Dorian replied. Now that he was close enough to look at properly (not several feet in the air and half-hidden by foliage), Dorian noticed the dark circles under the Inquisitor's eyes. Had he not slept? Had he been out here all night? Why? Was it something Dorian had done? He wished he could remember more of the night before, if only to know if he should be begging forgiveness.

The look he got from the elf was lined with sympathy, completely unaware of Dorian's swirling internal panic. "Have you eaten?"

"Not as of yet," Dorian said, and clamped down on those feelings. The elf didn't appear to hate him, so he must not have done anything too bad. Maybe he was reading too much into this. He wasn't actually sure he could keep anything down right now, but his stomach was reminding him that he'd had nothing but alcohol for dinner the night before. "Have you? I haven't slept in quite that late, have I?"

"No, you haven't," Aldaron assured him. "Come on, the innkeeper's been at it since sunrise." So Aldaron had been out here for at least that long, it supported Dorian's theory that he hadn't sleep. That was not something he was happy to learn. The Inquisitor got little enough sleep as it was.

"Happy to have his business running again, no doubt," Dorian said. He couldn't believe his father had paid to empty out an entire tavern just to have a conversation with him. Actually no, he could believe that. It probably hadn't even cost very much, Redcliffe didn't look like a terribly expensive place and his father always did have a tendency toward the overdramatic.

He followed Aldaron back inside the tavern and saw that two plates of food had shown up at the scout's table. Dorian's stomach rumbled embarrassingly as he sat down. As soon as he did the scout got up and left, commenting to Aldaron about checking on the horses before disappearing. "I don't think she likes me very much," Dorian commented. He picked up his fork and looked dubiously at the food in front of him. Typical southern fare. He still hadn't gotten used to their habit of overcooking and underseasoning everything. Did the people here not have a sense of taste?

"I'm not sure she likes anyone very much," Aldaron replied thoughtfully. He took a seat beside Dorian and began eating.

"I suppose it is somewhat demeaning to be assigned babysitting duty," Dorian said and took an experimental bite of the food. Just as tasteless as he had expected. Wonderful. "Even if you are the most important person in the world."

"I'm hardly that," Aldaron protested.

"Don't sell yourself short," Dorian insisted. "Herald of Andraste. Magical glowing hand and all that? You're certainly top ten, at least." He wondered how much of this food his stomach could handle at the moment.

"Please don't call me that," Aldaron frowned, pushed his food around his plate.

Dorian looked over and studied his face for a moment. The elf looked troubled, upset even. "What? Herald of Andraste?" he asked. Then he realized why the title might upset him. Elves had other gods, didn't they? "You're not Andrastian, are you?" Really, it should have occurred to him before, but elven culture was not something Dorian had been educated in. Perhaps he should remedy that. Maybe the library had some books. Or he could always ask Solas, but he imagined that would probably be unpleasant for everyone involved.

Aldaron shook his head. "I believe in the gods of my people."

"Of course," Dorian replied. "I shouldn't have assumed."

"It's fine," Aldaron sounded so resigned. Like he had given up trying to protest the title. Maybe he had. Dorian had not heard anyone call him 'Herald' in a while, but that had been the only thing anyone could talk about in Haven. And he could see why Aldaron would not like being declared prophet of a god he did not believe in.

"I'll be sure not to use it again," Dorian promised.

Aldaron looked over at him. Was that expression surprise? It was so hard to tell sometimes. He could see the faintest of smiles pull at the corners of the elf's mouth, though, and that was always something to feel triumphant about.

* * *

><p>They left when Dorian felt he was capable of sitting a horse without losing the contents of his stomach. Aldaron was glad to be back on the road again, but he worried about the man. He was putting on a brave face, but looked absolutely miserable when he thought no one was looking. He slumped in his saddle, hung his head, rubbed at his temples, and he was noticeably quieter than usual. Aldaron hadn't realized how much he'd grown used to Dorian's constant whining about the outdoors, but it was strange not to hear it. The state lasted until midday, when Dorian finally began to look a bit more alert, sat up a bit straighter, and commented on the weather. Aldaron was surprisingly relieved.<p>

Because of their rather late departure from Redcliffe the sun was already setting by the time the party arrived back at Skyhold. "Thank the Maker," Dorian breathed a sigh of relief as they rode into the courtyard. "What I wouldn't give for a bath and a proper meal. I feel like I haven't eaten real food in days."

"I take it you're feeling better then?" Aldaron asked. He swung down from his hart, stroking the animal's nose when it butted against his arm.

"You mean, do I feel well enough that I no longer regret my decisions last night and forget all of my oaths to never drink again?" Dorian laughed as he swung down from his own mount.

"I'll take that as a yes," Aldaron couldn't help his smile. It was good to see Dorian back to normal. He had been more concerned than he was willing to admit.

"I am absolutely famished, however," Dorian complained as he handed his horse over to a stable hand to be tended to. "Do you suppose we've missed dinner?"

Dorian was quiet happy to hand all work over to the servants, but Aldaron began unbuckling his hart's saddle himself. He didn't see the need to make other people do something so simple when he had the time to do it himself. "If you hurry you might make the tail end," he replied. "There will probably be something left."

"We're well beyond fashionably late by this point, I'm afraid," Dorian sniffed in disregard. "If we'll have to settle for leftovers anyway there's no point in announcing it to the masses."

Aldaron shrugged and pulled the saddle off entirely. The hart shook itself happily in relief, blanket falling to the ground. Food was food, as far as he was concerned. He didn't understand this shemlen obsession with when and where and how you dined. Josephine was still struggling to get him to hold a knife the way she wanted, and he didn't think he would ever understand why there were so many forks. But if Dorian didn't want to show up in the main hall right now that was perfectly fine, Aldaron preferred eating in privacy anyway. "We'll have to raid the kitchens, then."

"Raid the kitchens?" Dorian asked with amusement in his voice as he watched Aldaron begin to brush down the hart. "How rebellious. Does the Inquisitor do that often? I had no idea."

"Usually when Josephine has the hall full of foreign dignitaries," Aldaron admitted with more than a little embarrassment. He knew that was incredibly irresponsible of him, to avoid his duties like that. But he would probably pick up the wrong fork and embarrass the entire Inquisition, so really it was for the best.

Dorian laughed. "I don't blame you. I would do the same. I've certainly ditched my fair share of fancy dinner parties, much to my mother's dismay."

"Really?" Aldaron asked. "I thought you'd be the sort to enjoy those things."

"To an extent, yes," Dorian replied. "Lots of expensive wine and good food, who wouldn't enjoy that? But the company usually leaves something to be desired, don't you think? Go to a party in Tevinter and it's likely that everyone there hates you, including the person who invited you. Probably you'd hate them all, too, so the only reason to go is for the wine and that maybe someone will be assassinated, which would at least be exciting."

"That's… very morbid," Aldaron said with frown.

The mage shrugged, "One must find entertainment somewhere," he commented. "I do hope that no one gets assassinated at one of your parties, however. I imagine it would make your job rather more difficult."

It certainly would, so Aldaron appreciated the thought. "You can go ahead if you want, you don't have to wait for me," he said.

"And deny you the pleasure of my company?" Dorian grinned when Aldaron blushed faintly, "I'll wait."

Aldaron was nearly done anyway. He finished rubbing down the hart while Dorian watched, feeling a little self-conscious. He didn't usually have an audience. When he finished he patted the animal on the neck and murmured to it softly in Dalish before stepping out of the stall.

"You seem very attached to that creature," Dorian observed, "What is it you call him?"

"Falon," Aldaron replied. "It means friend." He paused outside the stable and glanced back, watching as the hart bowed its head and began eating. "He… reminds me of my clan." It was the first time he had admitted to anyone that he was homesick. Dorian was the only person he felt comfortable admitting that to.

Dorian was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again his voice was soft and gentle. Sympathetic. "You miss them." It was not a question.

Aldaron turned back to him, his gaze met Dorian's and he knew he wouldn't be able to deny it, didn't want to. "I have never been away this long before," he said quietly. "But I hope to see them again, when this is all over." If he survived this, and it seemed very likely that he would not. But he had to keep hoping.

"I hope you will be able to," Dorian said. "Now come," his voice was suddenly cheerful again, trying to break the somber mood, "I am absolutely starved. Share with me your kitchen raiding expertise."

It did wonders to lift Aldaron's mood and ease the ache of homesickness.

* * *

><p>Aldaron and Dorian left the kitchens with the head cook's shouting ringing in their ears, scolded like small children for getting in the way and absconding with only the very best treats. Aldaron was fairly certain they had taken something intended for a visiting noblewoman. Dorian had seemed positively ecstatic when he laid eyes on this particular fare, however, so Aldaron hadn't been able to bring himself to protest.<p>

"That woman is an absolute menace," Dorian whined, nursing a red spot on the back of his hand where he'd been slapped with a wooden spoon. "Fantastic cook, though. Much too good for this place."

"You weren't fast enough," Aldaron replied. She had made several swipes at him as well, but he had managed to dodge all of them.

"I don't think she was trying as hard with you," Dorian complained. "She would get in trouble for hitting the Inquisitor."

"She would not," Aldaron frowned. He would never get angry over something so small. They had been the ones in the wrong, anyway. The woman was perfectly within her rights to scold them, as far as he was concerned.

"Not from you, maybe," Dorian shrugged as they stepped out into the main hall, almost completely emptied out now. There was Varric at his usual table by the fire and a handful of people lingering around, but the tables had been cleared off and the most everyone had gone their separate ways for the evening.

Aldaron himself was looking forward to a proper night's sleep. He was just wondering whether he should invite Dorian to eat with him in private or if that would be too forward. The mage hadn't acted any different than he had before they kissed, and he was not sure how much of that night Dorian actually remembered. However, before he got a chance to voice his thoughts one way or the other. Halfway across the hall he heard a door open and looked over to see Josephine leaving her office, arms full of papers. That was probably a bad sign, he probably should have turned tail and run immediately, but she spotted him too quickly.

"Oh, Inquisitor!" she called, and immediately headed for them. "I'd heard you returned. I take it the trip went well?"

"Yes, it was absolutely marvelous," Dorian answered for him, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Josephine barely spared him a disapproving glance before turning her attention back to the Inquisitor. "I was hoping to find you actually. There are some matters that I believe need your attention."

"This couldn't possibly wait until the morning?" Dorian interrupted, frowning. "We've only just arrived, the poor man hasn't even eaten yet."

"It's alright, Dorian," Aldaron assured him, even if he did want to tell Josephine to leave him alone right now. He was tired and hungry, but he had responsibilities that he had been dodging for the past two days. He knew he had to at least hear her out. It was nice to think that Dorian was looking out for him, however. "I'm sure it won't take very long."

"Only a moment," Josephine promised with a nod of her head. "I only wished to brief you on the most recent reports."

"That's fine," Aldaron said, and held back a weary sigh. It did sound like something that could wait until morning, but he'd given up arguing with Josephine when she got into these moods. The woman never stopped working, from what he had seen, and somehow expected everyone else to do the same. He turned to face Dorian, the man still looked disgruntled and he wasn't sure what to say. "Goodnight, Dorian."

"Goodnight, Inquisitor," the mage replied.

Aldaron searched his face for a moment, looking for any indication of the man's feelings, but Dorian just looked annoyed, and Aldaron wasn't sure if it was at him or at Josephine. So he turned and allowed the ambassador to lead him away.

"Aldaron," Dorian said before they had gone more than a few steps. Aldaron turned around before he could see the look of surprise on Josephine's face at the use of his given name instead of a title. "Do remember to eat some of that," he said, looking pointedly at the plate of food still in the elf's hands. "And try not to work too hard. Remember you are only one person."

Aldaron smiled softly in reply. It was very nice to have someone fret over him for a change, that's what he had liked about Dorian from the start. And knowing now how much Dorian had to worry about already it meant all that much more. "I will," he promised.

* * *

><p>Josephine kept Aldaron occupied until he was quite literally nodding off at her desk. He had barely slept the night before, and two days of travel with next to no sleep was finally catching up with him. When she finally released him he staggered up to his quarters and barely managed to undress before collapsing into bed and falling asleep. As a result, the Inquisitor slept later than usual, though he usually woke as soon as the sun peeked in though the many high windows of his rooms, so that was not saying much.<p>

As exhausted as he had been the night before, he was glad the paperwork had been dealt with then, it left him more free time today. He spent that free time checking in on the people he was coming to think of as friends more than just associates or companions in arms. They were more than happy to fill him in on the goings on and the gossip that he had missed while away with Dorian. But two days was not very long and really he had missed very little, certainly nothing important. Everything seemed to be getting along just fine without him. There were probably people who hadn't noticed he was gone at all, or wouldn't have except that it felt like everything he did was announced from the battlements. That was certainly something he could live without.

Aldaron was in the middle of a conversation with Solas – his latest attempt at understanding magic and the fade and this thing on his hand – when raised voices from above caught his attention. There was rarely a loud disturbance in here from anything other than Leliana's crows, so it drew his attention immediately, Solas' too. The voices continued to drift down into the atrium, heated and angry. "That's Dorian," Aldaron said, almost absently. Why was he angry? What was wrong?

"And that Chantry Mother, I believe," Solas added. "She passed through here shortly before you arrived."

Aldaron frowned. That was bad. It was no secret to him how much Mother Giselle distrusted Dorian. Why was she talking to him now when she wouldn't even give Dorian his father's letter in person? What could she possibly have to say that was more important than that? Whatever it was, Dorian sounded upset, and Aldaron felt suddenly protective. "I should go see what the problem is," the Inquisitor said, forcing himself not to sound as agitated as he felt. He had to force himself not to run up the stairs, too, but walk at a reasonable pace, almost casual. It wouldn't do to appear too upset about this, it could be nothing.

He saw them as soon as he could see the top of the stairs. Dorian had his back to the stairwell, but Aldaron could already see that he had his arms crossed across his chest, posture guarded and shoulders tense. He could finally make out what they were saying, but couldn't catch enough to understand the argument.

Mother Giselle spotted him as soon as he reached the top of the stairs and cut herself off before whatever she was going to say next.

"What's going on here?" Aldaron asked. It came out a little harsher than he had intended, a few too many emotions slipping through the Inquisitor's careful facade. But wasn't that always the case where Dorian was involved?

"It seems the revered mother is concerned about my 'undue influence' over you," Dorian answered.

"It is just concern," Mother Giselle interjected before Aldaron could get a word in. "Your Worship, you must know how this looks."

"You might need to spell it out, my dear," Dorian grumbled. And Aldaron was glad for it, because he wasn't entirely certain what the revered mother was talking about.

"This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumors alone…" the woman tried to explain, but Aldaron still didn't fully understand.

Was that why she had a problem with him? Because Dorian was Tevinter? Aldaron barely thought about that when he was with Dorian. It didn't seem all that important. Tevinter itself might be a wretched place (certainly seemed like it from the way people talked) but Dorian was a good man. "What's wrong with him being from Tevinter?" he asked. "Specifically?"

"I'm fully aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same," Mother Giselle began diplomatically.

"How kind of you to notice," Dorian interrupted, clearly annoyed. "And yet still you bow to the opinion of the masses?"

"The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence," the mother said defensively. "What would you have me tell them?"

"The truth?" Dorian suggested.

"The truth is I don't know you," Mother Giselle replied, "And neither do they. Thus these rumors will continue."

Rumors. Aldaron wasn't aware of any rumors, at least not about himself and Dorian. But the revered mother had admitted herself that she did not know Dorian – probably had never tried to know Dorian – and neither did anyone else spouting what he could only assume were lies. Surely anyone who bothered to get to know Dorian would see that he was a good man. Aldaron felt irrationally annoyed, defensive even. Whatever the people were saying was wrong. It didn't matter where Dorian came from, and Aldaron wasn't doing anything wrong by associating with him. "The concerns of the Chantry are no concern of the Inquisition, Mother Giselle," the Inquisitor said sternly.

"I am aware of that," the woman assured. "You risk, however, not only the Chantry's opinion."

If this was a serious issue she should have brought it to him first, not ambushed and accosted Dorian here in the library. This was beginning to look more and more like an extension of some personal grudge. "And if I asked where these rumors originated?" Aldaron struggled to keep his voice level.

"I… see," Mother Giselle backed down almost immediately. That only confirmed Aldaron's suspicions. Had there even been any rumors to start with? Or was she just sticking her nose where it didn't belong, as usual? "I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man's intentions," she was quick to try and placate the situation, but Aldaron did not think it sincere. "If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both." She bowed her head respectfully and took her leave. Aldaron did not trust himself to say anything civil in farewell, so he remained silent.

"Well, that's something," Dorian mused from his side, watching the woman walk away.

Aldaron turned to him immediately, still feeling that surge of protectiveness in his chest. "She didn't get to you, did she?"

"No, it takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations," the man was quick to assure him.

"Do you think she'll do anything?" Aldaron asked. He did not know her well, nor did he know if Chantry priests had a habit of meddling in everyone else's affairs. But if she had started any rumors, or was about to, he would rather it be dealt with now.

"Do what?" Dorian turned toward him fully, "Yours is the good opinion I care about, not hers. It does make me wonder. Is my influence over you… undue?"

Undue? Aldaron wasn't even certain what that meant. It sounded bad, though. And Dorian, while distracting, had never seemed like a bad influence. He didn't influence the Inquisitor's decisions any more or less than anyone else that Aldaron spent time with. "No, not undue at all."

"Overdue, then?" Dorian asked with a small smirk that had all of Aldaron's anger fading away in an instant to be replaced by a swarm of butterflies in his stomach. The man chuckled softly, either at his own joke or at Aldaron's reaction he wasn't sure. "I tease you too much, I know."

"I… probably deserve it," Aldaron admitted, because that seemed the least embarrassing way to say that he liked it.

"I'll have to find something we can do that doesn't involve teasing. Soon, preferably." That smirk was not going away, and now Dorian's voice was low, like it had been after they kissed in the tavern, and again it made Aldaron's brain stop working. He wanted to kiss him again. And from the look on Dorian's face, the man knew exactly what effect his words had on the Inquisitor. The man laughed softly and took a step back, which thankfully allowed Aldaron to try and collect himself again. "I imagine you have important Inquisitor business that I am interrupting," he commented. Aldaron could not tell if he was bothered by that or not.

Intervening in the argument had interrupted his conversation with Solas, but that hadn't seemed to be going anywhere to begin with. "I'm free until midday. If… you would like to do something?" he asked hesitantly, hopefully.

Dorian's eyebrows raised and he looked at Aldaron with something akin to pleasant surprise. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"Not… particularly," Aldaron admitted. "If you're busy…"

"Too busy to spend time with you? Perish the thought," Dorian smiled. "A game of cards will have to do, then. Or chess if you'd prefer?"

"I don't know how to play either," Aldaron replied, and felt embarrassed. He'd seen people playing cards in the tavern, been invited to a game or two by Varric or The Iron Bull, but always refused. He didn't want to admit that he didn't know how to play.

"What a terribly dull life you must have lead before this," Dorian chuckled. "I'll just have to teach you, then. Come, it'll be fun."


	9. Amulet

Days passed in Skyhold with some measure of routine. Routine was good. Aldaron liked routine. It was comfortable and predictable. And it made him feel like maybe he was getting the hang of this leadership thing. (Josephine was finally happy with his table manners and had moved on to critiquing his penmanship.)

The Inquisitor's days were filled with meetings and paperwork and reports and plans and losing an inordinate amount of money to Dorian in a card game the man called Wicked Grace. He was terrible at cards, and only marginally better at chess. Dorian seemed to enjoy relieving him of the contents of his purse, however, and Aldaron hadn't been planning to spend it on anything anyway, so he didn't mind. It was also becoming easier for him to relax around Dorian and be himself. Aldaron did not stumble over his words or worry about embarrassing himself nearly as often as he used to. And it was easier to smile at Dorian's jokes and his flirting, and attempt to flirt back on occasion. He wasn't sure how good any of his attempts at flirting were, but Dorian didn't seem put off, so it must not have been horrible.

"Are you certain you're not cheating?" Aldaron asked not for the first time as Dorian happily collected his winnings for the day. Aldaron had learned not to keep too much coin on his person just to prevent himself from going completely broke. Though he imagined Dorian would give at least some of it back if that happened.

"Do you have such little faith in me, Inquisitor?" Dorian asked in reply.

"For all I know you've told me all the wrong rules," Aldaron pointed out. "Maybe I do have a better hand than you. I've nothing but your word on the matter."

"Well if we're playing a game I've just invented I'm still better at it than you," Dorian answered smugly.

Aldaron rolled his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table. Trust Dorian to take an insult, even a teasing one, and turn it into a compliment. "We'll have to find a game that I can actually best you at, then."

"Oh?" the mage raised his eyebrows and smiled, intrigued. "Do you have any Dalish games you can teach me, then?"

"The Dalish don't play cards," Aldaron informed him. "At least, my clan didn't."

"No cards, no wine, no stuffy parties. Next you'll tell me there's not actually any dancing naked in the moonlight," Dorian teased.

"Not in my experience," Aldaron replied. The things that shemlen said about his people never failed to amaze him in the worst way possible. "Although I can't speak for other clans."

Dorian laughed, "Then there's hope yet," he joked. "Another round?"

Aldaron shook his head, "That was all the coin I had today."

"A pity," Dorian murmured. "Though we could always play for other stakes."

"Such as?" Aldaron asked, intrigued.

"Clothing?" the mage suggested in a low voice. Immediately Aldaron's ears burned, he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Dorian laughed again. "I'm kidding, of course," he was quick to assure, though Aldaron thought he did sound a little insincere. And, well, it didn't sound like too terrible an idea, except that Dorian had him at a terrible disadvantage in terms of skill and amount of clothing. Aldaron wasn't even wearing shoes today. "Some other time, then."

"I don't know that I'll have time for a game tomorrow," Aldaron said as he rose from his chair. There was probably something he was supposed to be doing right now, but he couldn't remember what. "Harding's report from the Western Approach arrived this morning. It confirms that Grey Wardens are gathering there for… something. I'll have to look into it. Most likely we'll be heading out in a few days time." It was a long journey, several days at best, and there was a surprising amount of planning involved. "Would you come?" he asked hesitantly.

"The last time you brought me somewhere it rained the entire time and we spent two days up to our arses in the undead," Dorian reminded, but not unkindly. "Never did get the smell out of those robes."

Aldaron knew how Dorian felt about camping - namely that he hated it - but he had grown rather fond of the man's constant griping, shocking as that was. And he would be away from Skyhold for weeks. Though he would never admit it, Aldaron thought he would miss Dorian a little if he didn't come. "I have some business in Val Royeaux, so we'll be stopping there for a day or two. You can use some of that money I lost to buy new ones."

Dorian did actually seem cheered up by the prospect. "Well, when you put it that way how could I possibly refuse?" he grinned. "New clothes, your charming company. Almost makes the camping worth it. Who else is coming along?"

"Hawke is already there, so of course Varric will be coming," Aldaron said. Really it was surprising that Varric hadn't already run off after his friend. "Blackwall wants to find out for himself what's going on with the Wardens, but… I'm not certain it's a good idea. If they truly are being manipulated by Corypheus then it may be dangerous. It's likely his distance from the others that has kept him safe so far."

"A reasonable theory," Dorian agreed. "That seems to have been the case for Hawke's Warden friend."

"Do you think I should make him stay here?" Aldaron asked.

"I think that it should be your decision, Inquisitor," Dorian replied.

Aldaron frowned. What was that supposed to mean? Was he no longer allowed to ask his friends for advice? "I'm only asking your opinion, Dorian. I know it's my decision."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-," Dorian cut himself off with a shake of his head that left Aldaron confused. Didn't mean what? "I think," he began again, "That your concern is just. If Corypheus is manipulating the Wardens then of course Blackwall would be susceptible, too. If they are all gathering in one place then it is likely that Corypheus, or someone close to him, is there to facilitate. I think… That without knowing exactly how the Wardens are being effected it's impossible to say whether Blackwall would be a liability or not. And in that case it would be safer to make him remain in Skyhold."

Aldaron nodded thoughtfully. "Those were my thoughts as well," he murmured. Well, less fancy words, but the substance of it was the same. They did not know enough about Corypheus and his effect on Grey Wardens. Hawke and Stroud confirmed that he could influence their thoughts, but did not know how, exactly. Hopefully their expedition in the Western Approach would answer some of those questions. For now, however, it was probably safer for everyone (least of all Blackwall himself) to keep their Warden away from his brainwashed fellows. "Thank you," Aldaron said, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "I'll let you know when we plan to leave."

"I am awash with anticipation," Dorian replied sarcastically. "Don't work too hard," he added, far more sincerely.

"I'll try," Aldaron assured.

* * *

><p>Dorian was not terribly surprised to find himself falling for the Inquisitor. It was the sort of appallingly reckless and unfortunate decision his heart had a tendency to make without consulting his mind on the matter. No, Dorian was more surprised that everyone else wasn't also madly in love with the fool elf. And he was completely stunned that this magnificent creature might feel the same way for him.<p>

He had expected someone devoutly religious and perhaps arrogant or pompous about it, who reveled in the attention and power given them by followers. That's how it would have happened back in Tevinter, but the Inquisitor was none of those things. The Dalish elf vehemently denied being any sort of prophet. He did not even believe in the Maker. He deferred to the judgment of others and shied away from responsibility.

That had been endearing from the start. The Inquisitor wielded his power so very differently from everyone else in Dorian's experience. It was a welcome change, and made it easy to pledge himself to the Inquisition's cause. Made it easy to follow the elf out into the wilds even though he hated traveling and hated camping.

The Inquisitor bent over backwards to make everyone happy, to prove himself worthy of the lofty status to which he'd been elevated. And there was never any shortage of requests, however small and pointless, to fill the Inquisitor's already demanding workload. Aldaron worked himself to the bone, it was a miracle that he had any time to spare for Dorian whatsoever, and yet somehow he always made time. Not a single day went by that Aldaron did not show up at Dorian's nook in the library for something or other. Every day without fail. Regardless of the shadows under his eyes.

There were so many people asking so many things of this man that he barely had time to eat and sleep. Maybe that was why Dorian was so determined to never ask anything of him more taxing than a game of chess. And maybe that was why Dorian was so irrationally angry when Aldaron went behind his back and did him a favor anyway.

He knew the moment they approached the merchant what this was about and felt horrified and embarrassed and absolutely furious. "Is that why we're here?" Irrational, of course. Dorian knew this wasn't the only reason they had stopped in Val Royeaux. He'd seen the Inquisitor go off with Josephine to whatever secret meeting politics demanded, he'd been there while the elf purchased supplies for the remainder of their trip westward. Logically, he knew that this was a footnote at the end of the visit, but that did not change how he felt. He had told Aldaron he would get back his birthright amulet on his own, why wouldn't he listen? "I said I wanted to do this myself. I don't want to be indebted to anyone, least of all you."

"I apologize, but that won't be possible." Ponchard was a horrible excuse for a man, Dorian had had nothing but misery and annoyance in his dealings with him, first selling his birthright, and then in his futile attempts to buy it back. He reminded Dorian of everything he hated about the people back home. Selfish, power-mongering brown-nosers, hiding their intentions behind a polite smile. At least Orlesians had the decency to wear a literal mask, so you know from the start how false they are. "Do forgive me, Inquisitor, but when I heard of your… association with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist." Association? Dorian bristled at the term. Just how far had those rumors gotten? "It is not coin I seek for the amulet, but influence. Influence which you possess, but which the young man does not. Provided, of course, you… desire the amulet? For your friend?"

"Aren't you a merchant? Why not just sell it back?" Aldaron asked. Dorian almost scoffed. The Inquisitor was still naïve to these sorts of politics. Had he really thought to just walk in here and unload the Inquisition's treasuries on this man and get Dorian's amulet back easy as that? No, that was unfair of him. Of course the elf wouldn't understand the importance and power a stupid piece of jewelry could have. Not that emptying the Inquisition's treasuries for Dorian's sake would have been any better.

"I am not a fence, monsieur. I only bought your friend's amulet because of what it is," Ponchard explained patiently. "I do business in the Imperium. Having a birthright, even one not your own, is most useful in… select situations."

"He's got the right of it there," Dorian grumbled. And it infuriated him more to know that this man would use his birthright to engage in clandestine dealings.

"That is why I gave the young man so much. If he relinquished it, how is that my doing?" the merchant asked innocently.

"You want something from me," Aldaron said. A bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but the Inquisitor was not stupid. "What would you like?"

Even behind his mask Dorian could see the man smile. Disgusting. "The League de Celestine is an organization of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage. If someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. _That _would be worth the return of the amulet."

Of course. Then he would have enough standing that he wouldn't need the birthright. Another sniveling bottom feeder trying to pry his way into power.

"What do you think, Dorian?"

He was actually surprised when Aldaron asked his opinion. He'd been convinced that the Inquisitor was just going to plow through and give no thought to Dorian's feelings on the matter. He looked earnest, though, like he actually did care. That didn't change the facts of the matter, though. "Leave the man be," Dorian said stiffly. "I got myself into this, I should get myself out of it."

"Perhaps you should accept your friend's help, monsieur," Ponchard interjected, quite unwelcome.

"Kaffas!" Dorian swore, and scowled at the man. "I know what you think, and he's not my friend, he's…" Dorian cut himself off. He's what? More than a friend, but what? Some flirting and a few kisses didn't a lover make. Not that he could possibly say that here in public, regardless. The rumors were bad enough as it was. Dorian chanced a nervous glance at Aldaron and knew immediately that he had messed up and there would be no saving this. The elf's brow was furrowed. He was angry. Hurt? "Never mind what he is," Dorian finished curtly.

"As you desire," Ponchard sniffed. Dorian wanted to claw that damn smirk off his smug face. "Even so, that is the price. I shall accept no other."

"Very well. I'll do as you ask."

"What?" Dorian couldn't contain his shock. After all that Aldaron was still going to do this? Surely even he could see what a sniveling degenerate this man was? "You're going to give in to this cretin?"

"Do you want your amulet back?" Aldaron demanded.

It was rare enough to see the Inquisitor angry, and it had never before been directed at Dorian. It was startling. "I… yes, I do. I simply-," but Dorian never got a chance to try and explain himself.

"Much obliged, Your Worship," Ponchard interrupted quite rudely, "The moment I receive an invitation from the League, I'll have the amulet delivered."

"Influence-mongering," Dorian scoffed, and turned to leave. He didn't want to stay here and listen to this any longer. But though he planned to make an escape he heard footsteps behind him. Didn't that damn elf know when to leave well enough alone? "I don't want to be your debt. I don't want to be in anyone's debt." But especially not the Inquisitor's.

"You don't think…"

"I don't want to discuss it," Dorian snapped, harsher than he meant. He saw the flash of hurt in Aldaron's eyes before the elf sealed himself off again. He felt a resulting surge of guilt that was quickly buried and lost again under all the anger. Dorian turned on his heel and stormed away. This time he didn't hear anyone following him.

* * *

><p>Aldaron watched Dorian stalk away across the bazaar with his heart in his stomach. He was just trying to help, why was Dorian mad? The merchant had made it clear that he wouldn't give the amulet back for any amount of coin, and he couldn't let a man like that run around with something as important as this. Did Dorian really think that this put him in Aldaron's debt? He had never asked anything of Dorian except to spend time with him. He would never. He was trying to help.<p>

"You alright there, Inquisitor?" Although the others had stayed politely out of the way while Aldaron dealt with the merchant they must have overheard the whole thing. Aldaron had never intended to lose his temper, and now he was struggling to keep his composure.

"Why is he angry with me?" Aldaron asked quietly, unable to fully hide the pain in his voice even though he tried. Dorian had never been angry at him before. It hurt. What did he do wrong?

The Inquisitor felt a hand on his back and looked over to see Varric standing next to him. "Some people just don't know how to say thank you," the dwarf said sympathetically.

Aldaron sighed. He hoped it was that simple. Maybe he should have given Dorian some warning about what he was planning. Was that why he was angry? "I have to write a letter back to Skyhold," he said. What the merchant wanted sounded like something Josephine or Leliana could make happen and didn't need his direct involvement. "Then we should move out. Will you see that everyone is ready?"

"Sure thing," Varric agreed easily. "We'll meet you at the gates."

Aldaron nodded his thanks and the two went their separate ways, Varric to round up the rest of their party and the Inquisitor to find a courier. He did his very best to describe the situation in the letter scribbled out, and tried to justify the Inquisition's involvement as best he could even if he was doing this for selfish reasons. Or he had been, when he planned this and thought that Dorian would be happy about it. What a fool he'd been. When he finally arrived at the city gates his companions were already waiting for him. Dorian wouldn't look at him, and instead attempted to strike up a conversation with The Iron Bull. Aldaron tried not to feel dejected, and certainly didn't allow it to show, but he was upset.

Dorian did not speak to him the rest of the day. It took four full days to reach the Inquisition's base camp in the Western Approach, and the entire time Dorian spoke to him no more than was absolutely necessary. Aldaron was miserable.

When they finally arrived at the camp, hidden from prying eyes in the desert canyons, they found the situation more complicated than reports had told. Of course it was. Not only were there Grey Wardens gathering here, but apparently Venatori as well. And reports of a dragon. Why was there always a dragon?

The trouble did serve to keep Aldaron's mind off of his personal troubles, however. Vicious wildlife, rifts, bandits, all before they even found where Hawke and Stroud were waiting for them in the shadows of some ancient ruin. Aldaron felt the rift before he could see it, but the pain was not as sharp as he was used to, the mark did not begin to glow as it did with the other rifts they encountered. This was different. Not caused by the breach, but by blood magic. The Wardens were summoning demons and…

This was much worse than he had anticipated.

Demon armies, brainwashed Wardens; how could anyone think that this was a good idea? Were the Wardens really so scared that they would give in to this obvious plot? Or was this Magister Erimond really that persuasive?

"The Elder One showed me how to deal with you," the magister sneered, extending a hand that burned with red light. It was the surprise more than the pain that sent Aldaron to his knees. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as when Corypheus had tried to rip the anchor from his hand. And perhaps he was getting used to the pain after all this time. "That mark you bear? The anchor that lets you pass safely through the veil? You stole that from my master. He's been forced to seek other ways to access the fade." Good, let him. Let him struggle and search and find nothing. Aldaron braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself up to his feet. Erimond was still talking but Aldaron was not listening. Whatever the magister was doing it pulled and pushed at the anchor the same way as a rift, so maybe he could deal with it the same way. Pushing past the pain he thrust his hand forward and was rewarded as the power of the anchor broke Erimond's spell and sent the magister tumbling backward onto the stones.

Erimond turned and fled, Aldaron attempted to follow but the demons and the Wardens blocked his path and by the time they were dealt with the man was gone.

"Are you alright?" Dorian was at his side suddenly, face lined with real concern that startled Aldaron a little. Was Dorian not mad at him anymore?

"Yes, I'm fine," the Inquisitor assured. He did not think he was injured.

"What was he trying to do to your hand?"

Aldaron looked down at the hand in question, turning it over to look at his palm, but the mark was inactive again, little more than a scar. "I… I'm not certain. It felt like when Corypheus tried to remove it, but not as strong."

"Perhaps he was just trying to incapacitate you," Dorian hummed thoughtfully and frowned down at Aldaron' hand.

The elf felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny and quickly let his hand fall back to his side. "Obviously it didn't work," he commented. "I may be learning how to control it. I was able to break his spell." He didn't know how, though. Perhaps the mark had done that on its own.

"Fascinating," Dorian murmured, "Although a bit concerning as well, if you think about it. It doesn't hurt anymore, does it?"

"It's fine now," Aldaron assured him. At least as fine as it ever was, but Dorian didn't need to know that it ached constantly. That wasn't a conversation he wanted to have right now. Or ever.

"Good," Dorian almost sounded relieved. And Aldaron was confused because the man had barely spoken to him for the past few days. "I wouldn't want you hurt."

Were they back to normal? Just like that? Aldaron couldn't tell. This was the most affection Dorian ever showed in public, and Aldaron didn't know how to ask.

"I believe I know where the Wardens are, Your Worship," Stroud interrupted, drawing the Inquisitor's attention. This wasn't the time to be worrying about his personal life, Aldaron reminded himself. "Erimond fled in that direction," he pointed, and Aldaron glanced into the distance, but there was already no sign of the magister. "There's an abandoned Warden fortress that way. Adamant."

Of course. They had to have a command post somewhere nearby. "Good thinking," the Inquisitor replied.

"Stroud and I will scout out Adamant and confirm that the other Wardens are there," Hawke offered. "We'll meet you back at Skyhold."

Aldaron nodded and wished them luck as the two men took their leave. Then he glanced back at Dorian, who was already examining the ruins with interest. He shook his head. Now wasn't the time. There were still more important things to do. Like deal with those Venatori.

* * *

><p>They were away from Skyhold for nearly three weeks. Dorian did not seem to be angry at him anymore, was back to his usual good humor, but there was no time to talk about the state of their relationship between fighting Venatori, sealing rifts, and dodging darkspawn. This left their interactions somewhat awkward because Aldaron did not know where he stood. So he didn't flirt. He didn't smile. He begged exhaustion at camp every night and went to sleep shortly after dinner. Avoiding the problem would not make it better, but Aldaron did not know how to broach the subject, and he didn't want to do it while they were on the road anyway. Waiting might just make it worse, though.<p>

Aldaron rode into the courtyard dusty and a little bit sunburned and glad to be back. If he never had to go to the desert again he would be perfectly fine with that, but he knew he wouldn't be so lucky.

All three of his advisors appeared to welcome them back. Aldaron wasn't surprised, though just once he would like to bathe and eat before being forced right back to work. "Is there any word from Hawke and Stroud yet?" he asked after greetings were exchanged.

"A message arrived yesterday. They have confirmed that Wardens are occupying Adamant Fortress and are on their way back to Skyhold now," Leliana reported dutifully.

"From your reports, I don't believe we'll be able to reason with the Wardens," Cullen added. "It's likely that we will have to use force to stop them completing their plan."

Aldaron had been afraid of that. With many of their mages and possible the Warden-Commander herself under Corypheus' direct control it would be nigh impossible to reason with them. They wouldn't know the full extent of the situation until Hawke returned, however. "Then we will have to attack the fortress?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "Do we have the forces for such an assault?"

"We do," Cullen assured him, "And we can begin planning immediately."

"Very well," Aldaron sighed. "Do what you can, and let me know when Hawke arrives, hopefully he'll know what we can expect."

"If we know what to expect, then we'll know how to deal with it," Cullen said confidently.

That was Aldaron's hope. He knew nothing of war, certainly nothing of storming fortresses. It was a daunting prospect and he wouldn't even know where to start plans for such an endeavor. For this, he would have to trust Cullen's judgment and experience, though the Commander hadn't given him any reason to doubt so far. "Is there anything else?"

"Inquisitor, the matter you had me look into while you were away," Josephine said in a low voice, eyes flicking toward Dorian, who was too wrapped up in his conversation with Varric to notice, "It's been settled. You'll find the package on your desk."

Aldaron's heart leapt, and then froze for a moment as he also glanced surreptitiously at Dorian. "Thank you," he replied automatically.

"Of course," Josephine nodded, "I'm certain he'll be happy to have it back."

"I hope so," Aldaron murmured. He had his doubts, after the way Dorian had reacted in Val Royeaux. "If you'll excuse me," he said, and quickly made his escape. Just as promised there was a small paper wrapped package on his desk, atop the pile of reports that had stacked up while he was away but those didn't matter now. He snatched up the package immediately and tore it open. There it was; just a stupid little trinket, a piece of jewelry really. All this trouble over a necklace.

He had it now, there was no going back. Either he gave it to Dorian or he kept it himself. Neither option sounded very good at the moment. He needed to think.

After a bath and a change of clothes Aldaron spent a long time sitting at a table in the tavern – untouched mug of beer in front of him – staring at the amulet and wondering whether he should give it to Dorian or not. Would the man still be angry? Would he even accept the amulet? He wanted the thing back, though, so wouldn't he be happy?

Suddenly Aldaron was aware of someone sitting across from him at the table and he startled, looking up abruptly. There was Cole, ridiculous hat and all, sitting in a chair as though he had always been there and staring at the amulet with a frown. How long had he been there?

"He wants it, but he doesn't," the boy said suddenly, without taking his eyes off the amulet.

"What?" Aldaron asked in confusion.

"You have too many people asking you for everything under the sun, I won't be one of them." It was Cole's voice, but those were Dorian's words ringing clear in Aldaron's mind. Exactly what he had said when Aldaron first asked him about the amulet.

Was that why Dorian was angry? He thought this was just another 'Inquisitor favor'? "I didn't do it because he asked," the elf insisted. He had thought it would make Dorian happy.

"You want to help," Cole said, and raised his eyes to look at Aldaron across the table. "Like me."

"Yes," Aldaron murmured. "I thought he would be happy."

"Happy to have it back, but at what cost?" Cole asked. Something in the tone of his voice let Aldaron know he wasn't actually asking. Cost? Then Dorian did think this was just a favor, thought that Aldaron would want something in return. But Aldaron didn't want anything; he only wanted Dorian to be happy. Didn't Dorian know that? Obviously not.

The Inquisitor stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor and startling the boy sitting across from him. "Thank you, Cole," he said. If this was all just a misunderstanding then he could fix it and maybe everything would go back to normal. "I have to talk to Dorian."


	10. Amatus

Aldaron hurried across the courtyard and up the steps to the main hall, but froze halfway up the stairs to the library. What exactly was he planning to do? Just waltz in there like nothing was wrong and hand over the amulet? 'I got this back even though you told me not to, but I don't expect anything in return so please don't be mad at me'? Dorian might not even be here, it hadn't been that long since they arrived. Well, he might as well check, and if the man wasn't here then this would have to wait until tomorrow.

He took a deep breath to calm his anxious heart and climbed the rest of the way up into the library. And there he was, leaning against the railing toward the center of the room and seeming to be lost in thought. Predictable, at least, in that if he wasn't eating or sleeping or keeping himself beautiful Dorian could be found in the library. Aldaron approached slowly, clearing his throat to make himself known. It caught the man's attention and Dorian looked over, smiling when he spotted Aldaron.

"See if I ever let you drag me out to the desert again," Dorian complained on sight, though the quirk of his lips meant he wasn't too angry about it. "I've had sand in places that sand was never meant to be."

"I have something for you," Aldaron blurted out. No need to beat around the bush, better get this over with before he lost his nerve. Dorian wasn't angry now, but he might be in a moment.

"Something for me?" the mage asked, "Is it a present?"

"It's…" Aldaron hesitated, and then just shoved his hand forward, holding out the amulet. "Here."

The smile faded off Dorian's face as he saw the amulet, he stared for a moment, and then lifted it off Aldaron's hand. "Now I'm indebted to you. I never wanted this, I told you," he sighed, voice pained but resigned.

"I didn't do this so you would be indebted to me, Dorian," Aldaron insisted, and naively thought that would solve the problem entirely. "I did this for you."

Dorian just sighed again, "That's the problem."

Now Aldaron was confused. If Dorian wasn't angry because he thought this was a favor, then why was he angry? Couldn't he do something nice for someone that he cared about? Did they not do that in Tevinter? "How is that a problem?" Whatever he had done wrong he wanted to fix it, but now he had no idea where he had messed up.

"Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It'd be foolish not to," Dorian began pacing the small alcove as he spoke, agitated. "He can open doors for you, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power. That's what they'll say. I'm the magister who's using you."

Using him? Dorian wasn't using him at all. And if he was he was much more subtle about it than everyone else. Either way it had never occurred to Aldaron that it was something to worry about. The Inquisitor had never been concerned about the rumors, and he thought Dorian wasn't either. Apparently he'd been wrong. "I… had no idea you were concerned about that," he admitted. He should apologize then, but he didn't want to. It shouldn't matter what people said, Dorian wasn't using him.

"I don't care what they say about me. I care what they say about us," Dorian reiterated. The apology died unspoken on Aldaron's lips. _Us_. There was an 'us'. "I… was an ass before, with the merchant. It's my specialty. I apologize, and thank you," he said with a sincerity that surprised Aldaron a little, and then ducked a bow that surprised him even more, but made him smile. He had never seen Dorian bow to anyone else. This meant everything was fine between them. Dorian wasn't angry. It was such a relief. Hesitantly, Aldaron stepped forward, closing the space between them, and leaned up, pressing his lips shyly against Dorian's. He was not entirely certain the gesture would be welcome, but that fear vanished immediately as he felt Dorian lean into the kiss and the mage's hands settle on his waist. Aldaron wrapped his arms around Dorian's shoulders and pulled him closer, lips clumsy as he attempted to deepen the kiss. His efforts were rewarded with a breathy chuckle but a ready acceptance.

"I'm going to stop before I say something syrupy," Dorian breathed when they parted. "But I won't forget this… And I will repay you. Count on it." Aldaron didn't want anything in return, though, except maybe another kiss. But Dorian was already pulling away, glancing out into the library as though checking for eavesdroppers.

"You don't need to repay me, Dorian," Aldaron insisted again.

"No, but I want to," the man replied. "If you can do things for me without permission, then you must allow me to do the same."

Aldaron could not argue with that logic. "Fine," he relented. Not that he would ever stop Dorian from doing things for him anyway. That might be a nice change from him doing things for everyone else.

* * *

><p>Soon enough everything in Aldaron's life went back to this new semblance of normal, with the exception that he spent a lot more time in the war room learning more than he had ever wanted to know about military tactics and troop movements and siege weapons. It came to him more easily than the politicking, however. Of course it still meant long hours hunched over tables, reading reports, signing off on requisition orders; and sleepless nights where his hand ached and his mind kept pouring over tactics and strategies until sheer exhaustion was the only thing that brought him rest.<p>

He had no idea war took so much effort to plan. And people went to all this trouble over petty squabbles? He would never understand humans.

Aldaron stood at his desk, sighed, raked a hand through his hair and stared down at the pile of paperwork that awaited him. It was not encouraging. He did not enjoy reading, especially these dry reports on supply lines and training schedules.

There was a knock on the door. He called for them to come in without really paying attention. He'd expected a servant or messenger, so he was startled when Dorian's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"It's all very nice this flirting business." Aldaron turned around quickly, it wasn't often Dorian sought him out, but whatever pleasant greeting he'd been preparing died on his lips when he set eyes on the man. Dorian was looking at him the way a wolf eyed a lone deer. "I am, however, not a nice man. So here is my proposal: we dispense with the chit chat and more onto something more… primal." Aldaron's mouth went dry at the low rumble in Dorian's voice. That wasn't the tone he used for harmless flirting, he was dead serious. "It'll set tongues wagging, of course. Not that they aren't already wagging." Aldaron couldn't move. He was frozen in place by shock, desire, apprehension. He could only watch, heart racing, as Dorian prowled closer and circled him like a shark. "I suppose it really depends. How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?" The man's breath against his ear, his voice low and rough, sent a shiver down Aldaron's spine that both excited and terrified him.

His heart was racing, he could barely think, he needed to – Aldaron took a step away from Dorian perhaps a little too quickly, "Do we need to take things this quickly?"

"Quickly?" Dorian sounded genuinely confused. "By my standards we've been positively chaste."

"It just… seems a little sudden," Aldaron replied meekly. It wasn't that he didn't want to. By the Creators, he _definitely _wanted to. But he had never actually… Dorian had caught him off guard. He wasn't emotionally prepared for this.

"What is it you want from me exactly?" Dorian asked, brow furrowed. "A relationship?" the word slid off his tongue like poison.

Aldaron felt his heart sink. Had he read all the signs wrong? Did Dorian really not want more than sex? "Is that such a terrible idea?" he asked, frightened of the answer he might receive. Dorian looked stunned, though, opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. "You're speechless." That was a bad thing; that had to be a bad thing.

"It doesn't happen often," Dorian sighed and turned away from him for a moment. When he looked back his face softened and he spoke gently. "Where I come from, anything between men… it's physical. It doesn't go beyond that. It's not that you don't care, you just… don't hope for more."

Now it was Aldaron's turn to be confused. "Why wouldn't you? What's the worst that could happen?" He had no idea what things were like in Tevinter. Certainly the Dalish would be less than thrilled by a relationship between two men, but they were positively obsessed with reproducing. But he had never feared that his Keeper would force any couple apart that truly cared for each other. He knew that, in Dorian's case, the man had been pressured to marry, but he was nobility and they were equally obsessed with reproducing. Aldaron had always imagined that, in another situation, it wouldn't have mattered so much. Had he been wrong?

"You say that like it's a simple thing, easily imagined. I have no examples with which to compare," Dorian protested.

Aldaron didn't really understand. He'd seen plenty of happy couples among his Clan, and later among the humans of the Inquisition and elsewhere. Some of them had even been two people of the same gender. For him it was easily imagined. If you cared for someone then you didn't just sleep with them and leave. Did Dorian not understand that? Or worse, did he not want that? "So… you want to call it off?" he asked nervously, and it was hard to keep the tremor out of his voice.

"No!" Dorian insisted immediately, "It's just…" he sighed with exasperation, "You're asking me to turn into a unicorn. And I don't even know what one looks like."

"I'm not asking you to change," Aldaron replied immediately. He liked Dorian just the way he was; didn't want him any other way. He just wanted there to be more between them than flirting and sex.

Dorian stared at him incredulously for a moment, and then seemed to deflate, shoulders slumping in resignation. "Fine, have it your way," he grumbled, as though agreeing to some unpleasant demand. "I am, however, not leaving your quarters empty handed," he added, a measure of his usual good humor back in his tone. "It's a matter of pride." Before Aldaron could ask what he meant Dorian took him by the hand and pulled him close, arm around his waist immediately as he leaned down to press their lips together. Aldaron melted into the embrace without a thought.

* * *

><p>A relationship.<p>

Dorian had to stop midway down the stairs from the Inquisitor's quarters and lean against the railing to laugh aloud.

A relationship. What a novel concept. How utterly ridiculous and naïve and fantastic.

Full of surprises, their Inquisitor was.

When he regained his composure Dorian straightened again, but couldn't quite wipe the smile off his face or stop the fluttering of his heart. He hadn't felt like this since he was fourteen with his first crush and too young and stupid to know any better. Apparently he was still too young and stupid to know any better. Then again, this was the barbaric south, and so many things were different here. Maybe it wasn't such a ridiculous notion.

But if Dorian accepted that hypothesis it left him with another dilemma. Romance. Namely: how did it work? He'd been completely honest when he said he had no examples with which to compare. People in Tevinter didn't do romance. They did arranged marriages and casual insults and sleeping in separate rooms. But Aldaron clearly wanted romance, and Dorian didn't exactly _not _want romance. And that left Dorian with a problem, because he had no idea what that meant or what was expected of him.

Oh, Maker. He had to go read every single one of Varric's terrible novels. Right now. This very second.

* * *

><p>Planning a war left little time for romance. Or anything, really. The Inquisitor took his meals in the war room and fell asleep at his desk. The soldiers were ready to move out, the supply lines secured, the siege weapons delivered. The main body of their forced was set to leave the following day at first light. The Inquisitor and his inner circle would follow two days later, able to travel at a faster pace with a smaller group, and regroup with the army at Griffon Wing Keep, from which they launch their assault on Adamant.<p>

Aldaron had thought of nothing else the entire day, entirely focused on double checking everything. He had never been a part of anything this big before, and he wanted to ensure that everything was as perfectly planned out as possible. Outside the windows of his quarters the sun was setting, but he barely noticed it. He barely even heard the knock on the door or the scrape of wood against stone as it swung open, but he rubbed his eyes, tired after long hours of reading, and looked up in time to see Dorian appear at the top of the stairs.

"Why am I not surprised to find you sitting here hunched over papers? You know it's much too late to change plans now," the man was carrying a tray laden with plates of food and a bottle of wine. "Have you left this room at all today?"

"I have," Aldaron protested. He'd gone down to the war room that morning. "Since when do you deliver my meals?"

"What? You aren't going to thank me for such a thoughtful gesture? Marvel at how I escaped the kitchens unscathed?" Dorian asked, feigning offence. "Very well, I admit it. I intercepted the serving girl at the door. It was nothing but a happy accident, so don't get your hopes up for a repeat performance." He set the tray down on the small table beside the sofa and sat down, arranging himself with a casual elegance. "Come now, have you eaten anything at all today, or have you been too wrapped up in Inquisiting?"

Aldaron was all too happy to put his work aside for a while if it promised time alone with Dorian. He regretted that he had been too busy to even hold a proper conversation with him after the last time the mage had shown up in his room. "I may have lost track of the time," he admitted as he stood from the desk and crossed the room, stretching his back as he did and trying not to blush at the way Dorian's eyes raked over his form.

"It's a good thing you have me, then," Dorian replied. "We can't have the Inquisitor starving to death because he was too busy to eat, can we?" He patted the spot on the sofa beside him and Aldaron happily accepted the seat, moving close enough that their thighs brushed together.

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to see you lately," Aldaron said guiltily.

The man merely shrugged and reached for the bottle of wine. If he was bothered at all it did not show. "It's understandable, I assure you. Although I do rather miss watching you run about. It's a very nice view; for me at least." When he got the cork free of the wine bottle he sniffed at it curiously, "Oh, so there is good wine to be found here. I'll have to dine with you more often."

"I certainly wouldn't mind," Aldaron replied. That sounded nice, actually.

"Of course you wouldn't," Dorian grinned. "Who wouldn't want to have dinner with me? I'm a delight at parties. I am, however, not terribly adept at planning thoughtful gestures, because if I had actually planned this there would be two glasses here instead of just one."

"We can share," Aldaron suggested easily. "Or do without the glass entirely."

Dorian raised an eyebrow curiously as he looked over at him. "Is that how your people drink? Straight from the bottle like barbarians? I like it." He gave Aldaron a cheeky grin and raised the bottle to his lips, drinking some before offering it to the elf, who accepted it and repeated the gesture. The wine was very good, but the true quality was probably lost on Aldaron. A lot of the effort that went into his meals was probably lost on Aldaron. They were very good, but he probably would have been just as happy with whatever the tavern was serving or whatever the soldiers were eating in their camp down the mountain.

Perhaps it was finally being able to relax, or perhaps he'd had a little too much wine, but as they shared the meal Aldaron found himself leaning more and more heavily against Dorian's side. Of course it probably didn't help that he had to lean across the man to reach any of the food. By the time the wine was gone he was feeling pleasantly buzzed and was practically sitting in Dorian's lap, pressed close against his side with the man's arm around his shoulders. Stomach full and mind fuzzy he laid his head against Dorian's shoulder and sighed happily.

"Do you always turn into a housecat when you're drunk, or just with me?" Dorian asked, amusement in his voice.

"I'm not drunk," Aldaron protested, but didn't move. Dorian smelled nice.

"Not yet," Dorian chuckled. "I could call for more wine, if you like."

Aldaron shook his head as best he could with his cheek pressed against Dorian's shoulder. He was happy like this; tipsy enough that he wasn't shy but still sober enough to think clearly. After a moment he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of Dorian's mouth. He felt the man's lips quirk into a smile under his, then Dorian turned his head just enough to kiss him properly. Aldaron kissed him back eagerly, with none of the hesitation that usually hindered him, shifting on the sofa to try and find a more comfortable position. Dorian caught on to his intentions quickly and turned, a hand on Aldaron's waist and another on his thigh as he eased him back against the arm of the sofa. They settled there comfortably, Aldaron resting back against the plush fabric and Dorian poised above him, one knee carefully settled between the elf's legs.

"Where exactly are we going with this, amatus?" Dorian breathed, peppering kisses along the elf's jaw.

It didn't escape Aldaron's notice that it had only been a few days since he had turned down Dorian's attentions. That hadn't been for a lack of desire on his part, only a lack of preparedness. "I… don't know," Aldaron admitted softly. He didn't want to admit that he was a little bit nervous. He looked away but Dorian wasn't paying attention to his face anyway, his lips had moved down to Aldaron's neck. "I've never actually…" he trailed off, too embarrassed to finish the sentence.

The reaction was immediate. Dorian stilled, then drew back, looking down at him though Aldaron could not meet his eyes. "Is that all?" he asked. "Amatus-" Aldaron didn't know what that meant but he liked the way Dorian said it. Shyly he looked back at the man. "I won't do anything you don't want."

Aldaron believed him. "I don't know what I want," he said quietly. He wanted to be close to Dorian, to hold him, kiss him. Beyond that he wasn't so certain. He knew in theory how sex worked even if he'd never had the opportunity to put it into practice. Dorian obviously had a lot of practice, and that was simultaneously comforting and nerve-wracking.

"Do you want me to stop?" Dorian asked.

"No," Aldaron replied.

A smile quirked at the corner of Dorian's lips. "Good," he breathed, "Let's move this somewhere more comfortable, then."

Aldaron nodded mutely and watched as Dorian climbed off the sofa. He took Aldaron's hands and pulled the elf to his feet as well. Then Dorian's mouth was on his again, hands on his waist and pushing him gently back toward the bed. As if of their own volition his hands moved around Dorian's shoulders and pulled him closer. The back of his legs met the side of the bed and Aldaron fell back onto it, pulling Dorian down with him. He was nervous, heart thundering in his chest, but he didn't want to be parted from the man.

The pair scrabbled further up the bed, lips barely parting until Aldaron was resting against the pillows. Then Dorian's hands were running up his sides, undoing the clasps on his shirt, mouth on his jaw and his neck. Aldaron let his head fall back, body arching unconsciously into every touch.

Dorian had gotten his shirt completely open before Aldaron even realized it was happening and slipped his hands inside the fabric to caress the elf's chest, ribs, stomach, hips, anything they could reach. Aldaron squirmed under the attention, let out a sigh of pleasure when fingertips ran lightly over a particularly sensitive spot. Emboldened somewhat by the wine and by Dorian's easy acceptance of his innocence in these matters, Aldaron tried removing the mage's clothes, only to be thwarted by layers of fabric and unfamiliar clasps. "How do your clothes even work?" he asked breathlessly, tugging futilely on a leather strap.

Dorian laughed lightly as he pulled away enough to look down at Aldaron's hands. "The great Inquisitor foiled by buckles?" he teased, but sat back on his heels and began stripping off the layers of his robes. Aldaron propped himself up on his elbows to watch. "Enjoying the show?" the mage asked when he noticed.

"Immensely," Aldaron replied, and then blushed all the way up to the tips of his ears when he realized what he just said. The filter between his brain and his mouth never seemed to work when he was with Dorian, and now it was gone entirely. Luckily the mage seemed to think it was charming, or at least amusing. He laughed again and shucked his shirt off onto the floor before leaning down to kiss Aldaron again. The elf returned the gesture readily, shrugging off his shirt as well. Arms free at last, Aldaron reached out for Dorian. His hands lingered on the man's sides, on his shoulders. Dorian was not really a large man – not when compared to soldiers at least – but he was larger than Aldaron. Wider, more muscular. Aldaron knew he was physically stronger than the mage, but he certainly did not look it. Dorian was built very differently from an elf. Aldaron liked it. Liked that he could feel the flex of the man's muscles as he ran his hands over his chest, liked the scratch of facial hair against his skin.

Well it wasn't the most surprising development in his life. In fact, in the midst of everything else falling for Dorian felt refreshingly normal.

"What are you thinking about so intently up there?" Dorian's voice startled Aldaron out of his thoughts and he looked down to where the man was poised over his chest.

"You," Aldaron replied honestly.

Dorian let out a bark of laughter. "Well, I suppose I can't complain about that," he commented, "But if you can think at all I must not be doing a good enough job."

"Then by all means," Aldaron invited, though he felt his face heat up again.

"First we'll have to get rid of these," Dorian said, and crawled down the bed to start unlacing Aldaron's boots. The elf leaned forward to help, quickly untying one while Dorian worked on the other. When it was loose enough he kicked the boot off the end of the bed where it landed on the floor with a thunk. "Goodness," Dorian smirked as he pulled off the other boot and tossed it off with its partner, "Someone is impatient."

"I don't like shoes," Aldaron replied, though it would be a lie to say that was the only reason he wanted them off.

"I have noticed your penchant for barefootedness," Dorian mused, "Is that an elf thing?"

"If you're really interested I'll tell you all about it, later," Aldaron said, "You promised to make me stop thinking." And he was curious, though apprehensive, to see what the man intended.

"That I did," Dorian agreed. His hands went immediately to the waist of Aldaron's breeches and began undoing the ties that held them on. "These will have to go as well."

Aldaron felt suddenly a little frightened, but he pushed it down as he lifted his hips to help wriggle out of his pants when Dorian had the ties loose. Still, he felt embarrassingly exposed as the fabric slipped down over his hips. He opened his mouth to say something but never got the chance. His pants were gone and Dorian's head was between his legs and the only sound that escaped his lips was a surprised moan. This was unexpected. But good. Very good. His hands twisted in the sheets below him while Dorian's mouth and hands continued to work absolute wonders. It was getting very difficult to think straight. At least it was difficult to think about anything other than what Dorian was doing with his tongue. Aldaron bit his lip and tried to choke back a moan that forced itself out as a low whine. He felt more than heard Dorian's soft laughter against his hip. It made him squirm in embarrassment. Dorian's hands settled on his thighs, pressing them apart and holding him down, took the elf deeper into his mouth. Aldaron squeezed his eyes shut, gasped, arched into the sensations. He tried to stay quiet but was doing a really terrible job of it. Every touch, every kiss, every swipe of tongue sent lightning down his spine, coiling tight and hot in his stomach until he could not contain it any longer. Head thrown back against the pillows he moaned as the release washed over him. It left him feeling momentarily dazed, flushed and panting and more relaxed than he had been in months.

Soft kisses against his cheek roused Aldaron back to the present. He opened his eyes to find Dorian smiling down at him, hair mussed though Aldaron couldn't remember touching it. "Did you stop thinking?" he asked cheekily.

"I may never think again," Aldaron replied, mind still clouded in a haze of pleasure. Dorian grinned and kissed him again. The elf looped his arms around Dorian's shoulders and kissed back, sloppy but no less enthusiastic. But as his thoughts began to clear again Aldaron realized Dorian was probably expecting some sort of reciprocation. Nothing he could do would be as good as that, though, Aldaron was certain. He let his hands trail down Dorian's chest, not entirely able to stop the way they trembled a little upon reaching the waist of the man's breeches. "What about you?" he breathed when their lips parted.

"Is that what you want?" Dorian asked in reply. But he was breathless and his face was flushed. Aldaron could tell it was what Dorian wanted.

The elf nodded mutely. Hesitant though he was, he did want to do… something. He just didn't want it to be disappointing.

"Very well," Dorian rolled over, flopping onto his back and pulling Aldaron half on top of him. "Have your way with me."

Arms braced on either side of the man Aldaron stared down at him, drinking in the sight of Dorian splayed out invitingly across his sheets but also uncertain where to begin. "What do I...?"

"Whatever you like," Dorian replied. When Aldaron only continued to stare though he propped himself up on his elbows, "What are you so afraid of? I won't bite. Unless you'd like that." Still no reply, because Aldaron didn't know what he was afraid of. Not being good enough? Dorian hadn't seemed to mind his inexperience so far. "Amatus, talk to me."

He sounded worried now, and Aldaron looked away. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "I thought…" Thought he was ready for this. He wanted it, but as soon as the opportunity was presented he froze up. It had been fine at first, with the buzz of the wine and Dorian taking the lead, but sober now and with all the initiative placed on him it was not so easy.

"Come here," Dorian murmured and pulled Aldaron down against his chest, but only for a hug. Aldaron tensed for a moment, and then relaxed against him. "I said I won't do anything you don't want. If you don't want to have your way with me then," he paused and gave a long suffering sigh, "Somehow I'll persevere."

"You're sure?" Aldaron asked. It felt selfish only to take and not to give. It wasn't fair to Dorian.

The man shrugged with the shoulder Aldaron wasn't laying on. "It's hardly the first time, I assure you. And you're not throwing me out immediately, so that actually puts you rather high up the list in my opinion."

"I wouldn't throw you out," Aldaron promised. "You can stay as long as you like."

"As long as I like?" Dorian asked curiously.

Aldaron nodded slightly without lifting his head from Dorian's shoulder. "All night, even."

"That's not an offer to make lightly," Dorian protested weakly.

"I'm not making it lightly," Aldaron murmured. Did Dorian think he would throw him out? Perhaps that was what he was used to. Aldaron wouldn't stop him if that was what Dorian wanted, but just laying here like this, pressed up against the man he – love was too strong a word just yet – he didn't want this to end any time soon.

Dorian let out a breathy laugh, a shallow attempt at his usual bravado. "I don't think you really know what you're asking."

"I want you to stay, Dorian," Aldaron raised his head to look at Dorian properly and found the man's expression unusually vulnerable.

"Very well," the man sighed, "How could I refuse those puppy dog eyes?" Aldaron smiled happily and kissed him softly. "But at least let me get out of these clothes, they're really not intended for sleeping in."

Aldaron reluctantly released Dorian so he could climb off the bed and crawled under the sheets, watching shyly as Dorian stripped down to his smallclothes. Only after folding his clothes carefully and leaving them in a neat stack on the sofa did he return to the bed and slide under the covers. Aldaron rolled over to face him and draped an arm over Dorian's waist. This was good. Just being close to him. This was nice. "Good night, Dorian," he whispered.

"Good night, amatus." He still doesn't know what that word means but it makes him smile as his eyes drift closed.


	11. Adamant

Dorian had never woken up beside someone before. At least not without a mounting sense of panic and scrambling to get dressed and get out before anyone noticed he was still there. Spending the night was not something that was done in Tevinter, especially not between two men. Spending the night implied a level of intimacy and certain emotions that the people there did not approve of. Even married couples rarely shared the same bed longer than necessary.

There was a momentary panic when Dorian woke and realized he was not in his own room. When he realized he was still in the Inquisitor's quarters, in the Inquisitor's bed, and that the sun was just beginning to rise. He sat up, instinctively moving to get out before anyone noticed. The weight of an arm slung carelessly across his waist stopped him before he so much as pushed the covers back. He stopped and he looked down at the man beside him.

Aldaron was curled up on his side, one arm flung across Dorian's body and the other tucked up against his chest. His hair was an even worse mess than usual, his face half buried in a pillow but lips parted slightly as he slept. He looked absolutely content. Unable to help himself, Dorian reached out and carefully brushed a lock of hair off the elf's face to better see what he looked like without those perpetual lines of worry and fear that usually lined his features. Perfect, gorgeous. The light touch was enough to make him stir slightly. A light sleeper. Dorian pulled his hand away immediately, but it was too late. He turned his head away from the pillow and those dark eyes fluttered open, blinked slowly. "Dorian?" his voice was rough with sleep and soft, barely more than a whisper.

"Go back to sleep, amatus," Dorian replied softly. It was still early, and the Maker knew Aldaron did not get enough sleep as it was.

Aldaron turned a bit more, took the hand away from Dorian's waist to rub the sleep from his eyes. Dorian felt the loss more keenly than he was willing to admit. "Are you leaving?" the elf asked, looking up at him. Dorian had no answer. He had been, for a moment, but now he was not certain. It was harder now that Aldaron was looking at him with those puppy dog eyes. When Dorian did not answer the elf reached out to him again, laying his hand on Dorian's arm. "Stay. Please."

Why did he have to make this so difficult? "It's still early enough I can make it back to my room and change clothes before anyone is awake to notice me leaving your quarters in the same thing I wore yesterday," Dorian tried to explain, though he doubted Aldaron would understand. Aldaron had never understood. But he also never heard the things people said about the evil Tevinter magister and how he was corrupting their pure Herald of Andraste.

"Oh," was all that Aldaron said in reply, let his hand fall away from Dorian's arm.

"It's better they don't have any more fuel for their gossip," he tried to explain. It was Aldaron's reputation he was thinking about. Just because people were more willing to tolerate relationships between two men down here didn't mean they would tolerate it in someone of the Inquisitor's standing. Or with someone like Dorian. And if he was honest with himself, Dorian was also trying to protect what little reputation he had left. He didn't know how the masses would react and he wasn't in any hurry to find out.

"You didn't seem bothered by that a few days ago," Aldaron murmured and sat up slowly.

He had said something rather flippant about it, hadn't he? "That was… before," Dorian tried to explain. When he'd thought this would be just a bit of fun on the side, maybe only a one-time thing. Easy to brush off any scornful rumors when there wasn't any emotion vested in it. It wasn't like that anymore.

Aldaron sighed softly and looked down at his lap where his hands were twisted in the sheets. "If that's what you want," he said softly, "I won't stop you."

The words twisted like a knife in Dorian's heart. He felt terrible running off like this. It was odd, he'd never felt bad about it before, but no one had ever asked him to stay before. Regardless of his feelings, though, a lifetime of experience told him this was the proper course of action. "It's better like this," he tried to sound reassuring, leaned over to kiss Aldaron on the cheek. "Besides, I'm certain you have a mountain of reports to read, and I would only be in the way if I stayed here." He climbed out of bed before Aldaron could do anything further to weaken his resolve. "How about this," he suggested as he dressed, trying to brighten the mood a little. "I join you for dinner again tonight, but this time it really is my idea and there are two glasses for the wine?"

He turned in time to see the smile quirk one side of Aldaron's mouth. "That sounds nice," the elf replied.

"Good," Dorian felt surprisingly relieved to see that smile. He didn't want to dwell on the feeling too much, however, and busied himself with pulling on his boots. "Then I'll see you this evening."

"I'll look forward to it," Aldaron said. He sounded for all the world like he meant it. He probably did, Dorian realized with a little shock. Imagine that.

Fully dressed, Dorian took a moment to tame his hair and mustache back into place before saying his farewells and stealing one last kiss before fleeing down the stairs. He hoped he hadn't lingered too long, but thankfully the main hall was devoid of activity when he peeked out the door and he was able to slip out of the Inquisitor's quarters unnoticed. That was the most important, that no one see him coming from there. If anyone saw him later – and it was inevitable that he passed a couple people on the way back to his room – they would draw their own conclusions, he was certain. But as long as no one actually saw him leave the Inquisitor's rooms in the small hours of the morning he could deny all of it. And that was something he had a lot of practice with.

When evening rolled around Dorian made his way down to the kitchens. He did not have Aldaron's skill in pilfering delicacies out from under the cook's nose, but through wit and charm and a handful of clever lies managed to procure the desired meal and even a kitchen maid to help him deliver it.

Unsurprisingly, arriving at the Inquisitor's quarters found the elf hunched over the desk in the corner of the room, papers littering the surface. Running a semi-religious international political organization certainly seemed to involve a lot of paperwork. Dorian wasn't all that surprised. He'd seen the amount of paper that crossed a magister's desk, and the Inquisitor certainly had a wider scope of influence and responsibility. Dorian did not envy him. Aldaron looked up from his papers with tired eyes and a dour expression that brightened the moment he saw Dorian.

"Is it that late already?" the Inquisitor asked.

"You're really quite terrible at keeping track of time, aren't you?" Dorian asked in reply. He set down what he was carrying, waited for the kitchen maid to set down her burden as well, and then waved her off.

"Do you always answer a question with a question?" Aldaron said.

Dorian smiled and purposefully needled him. "Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?"

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes as he set his papers aside and rose from his desk. "You're impossible sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" Dorian grinned. "I must try harder. Come. Sit, eat. Tell me all about your Inquisiting."

And Aldaron did, joining Dorian on the sofa with an exhausted sigh and gratefully accepting the offered glass of wine. His day had been long and boring, so they ended up speaking about other more interesting and less serious things.

"May I ask you something?" Dorian queried when they were halfway through a bottle of wine and Aldaron was just beginning his housecat impression.

"You ask me lots of things without permission," the elf replied.

"I suppose I do," Dorian admitted. For some reason he felt the need to ask permission for this subject. He expected it to be rather touchy. "Well, you don't have to answer, but I was wondering… You always speak as though you hate your position, being Herald or Inquisitor and all that. So I'm curious, why did you accept? You could have turned down the position, I imagine. Might have been awkward, but I doubt anyone would stop you from leaving if you'd wanted."

Aldaron did not answer right away. He stared down at the half-empty wine glass in his hand and frowned. "I don't think I could," he said eventually. "I couldn't walk away. I'm the only person who can close the rifts."

"Very well," Dorian granted. He doubted he would be able to walk away if that were the case, either. "The position, though – Inquisitor – you could have refused?"

Aldaron took a sip of wine and shook his head slowly. "I don't think so," he said again. "You didn't see… Well, maybe you did… The way people look at me and talk to me, like they think I'm perfect. I tried not being the Herald of Andraste," he said, and made a face as he said the title. "They wouldn't let me. Everyone thinks I can do anything; save the world and all that. And maybe I can, I don't know, but… I want to try. This… This isn't a problem I could walk away from, even without this thing," he glanced down at his hand. The anchor doesn't look like much when it's not closing rifts, an old scar maybe. "If there's anything I could do to make things right again, I want to do it. I've just… never had this much responsibility before."

Dorian thought he understood. Aldaron was doing what he thought was right, what he thought needed to be done to bring peace and stability back to the world, his personal feelings aside. The people wanted to follow him, so he would lead. "Well I think you're handling it magnificently," Dorian said honestly, but also in an attempt to lighten the mood. He'd known it was a serious topic, but hadn't intended to make everything so melodramatic.

Aldaron smiled the tiniest bit. "Thank you," he said, though he didn't quite sound like he believed it.

"You never talk much about before," Dorian tried to change the subject to something a little more cheerful. "What were you before you were the Herald of Andraste?"

"I was a hunter," Aldaron replied. Dorian wasn't at all surprised to hear it. The words flowed easily between them after that. The reminisced and spoke of everything and nothing, sat too close together, but Dorian did not press to move their activities beyond talking and kissing. Aldaron wanted slow, and Dorian didn't know how that worked but he was trying. He refused the offer to stay the night.

Two days later they departed Skyhold and all thoughts of romance had to be set aside.

* * *

><p>Aldaron was pacing. He walked from one end of the rampart to the other, turned on the ball of his foot and walked back. He was restless, jumpy. Only one day. Less than one day, only a matter of hours before they launched the assault on Adamant Fortress. He was nervous, frightened.<p>

"Please stop pacing, it's incredibly distracting," Dorian complained from where he was leaning against the stone wall nearby, backlit by the sun setting red over the desert. He was reading a book, and Aldaron wasn't sure where it had come from. "Also exhausting just to watch."

The man had showed up not long after Aldaron had climbed to the wall top in search of some privacy and open air. He felt confined in the fortress, especially when it was so crowded with people and supplies that he felt he could barely move. They were not totally alone up here, his pacing was occasionally interrupted by the soldiers on patrol, but at least he could feel the wind. Dorian – and this was quickly becoming predictable – knew exactly where to find him when he was being elusive.

"Sorry," Aldaron said, and forced himself to come to a stop a few paces from the man. "I'm just nervous." What the mage was doing here Aldaron wasn't certain. Watching him pace, obviously, but surely there was somewhere else he could be if it was annoying? Varric probably had a game of Wicked Grace going somewhere. Surely that would be better company than he was at the moment.

"I can tell," Dorian replied without looking up from his book. "Do you want to tell me the plan again? Would that make you feel better?"

He'd already told Dorian a half dozen times, been over it with his advisors at least twice that many trying to find any holes or loose ends. But it was solid. As solid as it could be, at least. Still, Aldaron began talking anyway, if only to keep himself from pacing again. "Cullen's troops will breach the walls, get us a way in and try to keep the bulk of the Warden forces occupied so we can find Warden-Commander Clarel. With me will be Stroud, Blackwall, Cole, and—,"

"Me," Dorian interrupted.

"You," Aldaron confirmed, looking up at him. "I'm hoping we can talk the Wardens into standing down, and they may be more willing to listen to one of their own. Cole has been to Adamant before; his knowledge of the fortress could be useful. And if they've already begun summoning demons then we'll need a good mage to help deal with them."

"And I am a very good mage," Dorian said confidently. "It's a good plan, very well thought out. The Commander knows what he's doing; you have nothing to be worried about."

"There are a hundred things that could go wrong," Aldaron protested.

"And a hundred things that could go right," Dorian replied. "And no way to know either way until they happen." That was true, Aldaron nodded slowly, but not particularly comforting. "So there's no point in worrying until then."

"I can't help it," Aldaron sighed. His mind had been occupied by this for days, it would be impossible to stop thinking about it until he matter was dealt with.

"You need a distraction," Dorian interrupted his thoughts.

Which was what Dorian had provided him with plenty of times before. "Do you have any suggestions?" Aldaron asked.

"The way I see it we have two options," Dorian began, "Either I begin reading aloud from this frighteningly awful book, which will likely bore you to sleep, or we go see what this place is trying to pass off as food."

"Are books and food the only things you think about?" Aldaron asked.

Dorian pretended to be offended, "I'll have you know I spend a great deal of time thinking about how incredibly handsome I am," he replied, "And nearly as much time thinking of how good your ass looks in those pants." Which made Aldaron blush and shift self-consciously. "But obviously my stunning good looks haven't served to distract you yet, so we must consider other options."

Eating was probably a good idea. He shouldn't go into battle on an empty stomach and the morning might leave him too nervous to keep anything down. He might not be able to keep anything down tonight, for that matter. This was the most nervous he remembered being in his entire life. No, that wasn't true. He'd been this nervous before closing the breach, but he'd been nauseous then too. "I should probably eat," he said absently.

"Good choice," Dorian closed his book with a snap. "Well, I may think differently once I see what sort of unidentifiable slop they're claiming is edible."

"It's not that bad," Aldaron protested. Tasteless and unidentifiable, yes, but when cooking to feed an entire army it was quantity over quality.

"Do you southerners have any sense of taste? Or has it been lost along with your ability to feel cold?" Dorian asked, beginning to lead the way back down into the keep. Aldaron took one last breath of fresh air before following him.

Predictably, Dorian complained about the food when they got it, tried to sweet talk the cook into giving them something better, failed, and ate everything he was served anyway. By the time they finished eating activity in the keep was winding down for the night. Dorian walked with the Inquisitor back to his tent and glanced around hesitantly before stealing a very quick kiss. "Don't worry about tomorrow. I'm certain everything will go exactly according to plan." Aldaron wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not. He hoped not. Dorian was leaving before he had a chance to reply. Despite his offers the man had doggedly refused to spend the night with him since their first and only time and Aldaron didn't know why. He had seemed uncomfortable the morning after, was that the problem? Was he uncomfortable sharing a bed with anyone? Or was it only a problem with Aldaron?

The Inquisitor shook his head and slipped into his tent to try and get some sleep. That was a problem to worry about when all this was over.

* * *

><p>The fortress was crawling with demons. They had begun the ritual already. It was too late to save the Warden mages who had already been bound, but perhaps they could prevent any more from completing the ritual. That was what drove Aldaron forward, what kept him shouting, begging the Wardens to stand down even though so few of them listened. There was no easy way through the fortress. They followed whatever path was open to them past barred doors and collapsed halls. The winding route led the Inquisitor and his companions up across battlements and through abandoned fortifications. There were demons around every corner, Wardens and Inquisition soldiers wherever he looked. They found Hawke holding back a pack of demons almost single-handedly and complaining loudly to nobody in particular about blood magic. When the area was clear enough for Inquisition soldiers to move in the Champion fell in with them. Aldaron would not protest the extra support. The whole situation was as bad as his worst expectations.<p>

Aldaron was breathing heavily by the time they finally found their way to the inner courtyard. His hand had been aching and tingling all day and it was getting worse. He knew why, of course, and when they burst into the courtyard he was not at all surprised to see the ethereal green glow of a rift lighting up the area.

There, at the top of the stairs at the far end of the courtyard stood the Warden-Commander, beside her the magister that had fled them in the Western Approach – Erimond. They arrived just in time to watch Clarel draw a knife across the throat of one of her soldiers, too late to do anything to stop it. A stupid waste of life. But they could still stop the ritual. Aldaron leapt forward, shouted, heedless of the obvious danger he was putting himself in but desperate to stop this before it got worse. "If you complete that ritual you're doing exactly what Erimond wants!"

They had their excuses, their reasoning. Aldaron wasn't listening. Nothing was worth what this was doing to the Wardens, what this would do to the world. Let them make their excuses, let them argue, none of it mattered in the end. "You're being used," he bit out in frustration. "And some of you know that, don't you?" And they did, at least some of them did, and the others were beginning to doubt. He could see Clarel hesitate to complete the ritual, to summon whatever demon was waiting on the other side of that rift.

Erimond, however, had other ideas. "My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor!" the magister called down to him, "He sent me this to welcome you!"

The last of his words were almost cut off by the screech of a dragon. Aldaron's heart stopped for the briefest of moments as he turned panicked eyes to the sky. He remembered that sound. Coryhpeus' pet dragon or archdemon or whatever it was. It came into sight over the walls and Aldaron barely had time to leap for cover as it sent fire and rubble raining down over the courtyard.

He scrabbled to his feet as the dragon perched itself on a ruined tower almost tauntingly and gripped his daggers tight, wracking his brain for what to do. This was not something they had planned for. In the future he would always plan for dragons. Distracted as he was by the dragon Aldaron did not see what transpired between Erimond and Clarel. He heard the magister cry out in alarm and looked over only in time to see the man run away and hear Clarel's shouted order of "Help the Inquisitor!"

Having the Wardens on their side was of little comfort when faced with an army of demons and brainwashed mages and an archdemon looming in the sky. The courtyard seemed to explode into chaos the moment that Erimond fled. Aldaron moved on instinct alone, cutting his way through demons and Wardens alike. "We have to get to Erimond!" he shouted back to his companions. The magister had just pulled an archdemon out of nowhere, who knew what other tricks he had up his sleeve.

Cole was the first one at his side, "Clarel is hurting – we have to help her," he said.

"She went after Erimond. Do you know where they are?" Aldaron asked.

"That way," Cole pointed. Aldaron barely spared a glance to make sure the others were following before he took off running. Above them the dragon screeched and circled, roared down blasts of flame that had Aldaron ducking behind columns and casting fearful looks at his companions to ensure that they were still safe. A little singed around the edges – Dorian's hair was ruffled; Blackwall's shield had more scorch marks than paint – but otherwise fine.

They finally caught up to Clarel and Erimond where ruined bridge cut off the magister's escape. Aldaron was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the Warden-Commander advanced with a deadly intent, flinging spells at the man with enough force to send him to the ground. Aldaron leapt forward to intervene before she could kill him – the magister had to have information they could use, knowledge of Corypheus' plans – but the screech of a dragon, the sound of leathery wings, that shadow that fell over them froze him in place. And then he could only watch as Clarel was picked up and flung about like a rag doll before being dropped again in a bloody heap on the stones before them. And then the dragon turned its attention on the Inquisitor and his companions. And it was between them and the only route of escape. Aldaron backed away instinctively, panic rising up in his chest as he stared down the dragon – archdemon, whatever it was – once again. His mind flashed back to Haven, and that terrifying night and he felt just as terrified and just as helpless as he had then. A dragon. How do you kill a dragon?

Movement caught his eye and somehow Aldaron managed to tear his gaze away from the massive creature to look beneath its feet. Clarel was alive. Somehow. Barely. As Aldaron watched the Warden-Commander raised her hand and with what was very likely the absolute last of her strength sent a bolt of lightning shooting up into the dragon. The creature screamed in pain and lurched forward. Aldaron threw himself to the side, barely getting out of the way before the massive creature hit the stones where he had been standing. The dragon roared furiously as it scrabbled forward, away from its attacker, and off the edge of the broken bridge. Its impact had weakened the structure, though. The stones were crumbling under Aldaron's feet as he rose again. The whole thing was going down, they had to get out of here. He glanced around in a panic, but everyone else seemed to have realized the same thing and was fleeing back toward the fortress. Aldaron followed, making certain to keep his companions in front of him where he could see them. A rock gave way beneath his foot and he stumbled, reached out a hand to steady himself but there was nothing there to hold onto. He was falling. Panic seized him, clutched at his heart like a fist, sent his stomach into his throat. The ground loomed up below him and he threw his hands out instinctively for all the good it would do.

There was a stabbing pain in his hand, like closing a rift, but there was no rift to close. Then the only thing he could see was green light.

He was falling, falling.

Not falling.

And the ground was above him? And then not as he hit it hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Confused and scared and aching Aldaron staggered to his feet and looked around. This was not Adamant. That much was obvious from the first glance. There was no sign of the fortress and everything had a green tint to it, like looking through stained glass. What had happened? Where was he?

"Where are we?"

The voice came from above him. Aldaron turned to look and nearly fell over again because Stroud was standing on a wall, on the side of a wall.

"We were falling…"

He spun around to face the next voice only to find that Hawke was upside down. This was impossible. What was going on?

"No, no no no no," Cole's terrified voice broke through Aldaron's own confused and panicked thoughts, drawing his attention to the boy, who was at least standing on solid ground. "This is the Fade. But I'm stuck. I can't… Why can't I…?" The Fade? Then Aldaron had opened a rift. The green light, the pain in his hand, he had controlled the anchor, though unconsciously. But there was no sign of the way they had come through, and he couldn't remember how he'd opened the rift that got them here. "This place is wrong," Cole continued, his voice still lined with fear. "I made myself forget when I made myself real, but I know it wasn't like this."

"This isn't how I remember the Fade, either," Hawke added.

"The first time I entered the Fade it looked like a lovely castle filled with gold and silks," Dorian interjected, entirely too cheerful for the current situation. "I met a marvelous desire demon, as I recall. We chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me." Aldaron startled and stared at him in muted horror that Dorian could talk about nearly being possessed as though it were a fond memory. "Perhaps the difference is that we're here physically. This is no ones dream."

That actually made sense. Aldaron had always thought of the fade as an illusion, because the was how everyone else experienced it. But there were holes in the sky letting demons out so the Fade had to be a physical place.

"The stories say you walked out of the Fade at Haven," Hawke said, and turned to face him, but the man was still upside down and it was incredibly unnerving. "Was it like this?"

Aldaron raked his brain for any memory of the conclave and what had happened to him there, but he could recall nothing. He wasn't even certain he had walked out of the Fade like everyone said. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "I still can't remember what happened then."

"Well, whatever happened at Haven, we can't assume we're safe now," Hawke shrugged. Aldaron wished he could be of more help. "That huge demon was right on the other side of that rift Erimond was using, and there could be others." The demon that Clarel had been summoning, halfway through the ritual when they interrupted, but still stuck on this side of the rift.

"In our world the rift the demons came through was nearby, in the main hall. Can we escape the same way?" Blackwall suggested.

It seemed the only choice unless Aldaron could figure out how to open a rift again, if it was even possible to open one from this side. He glanced down at his hand but the anchor was once again inactive. "It seems like our best option," the Inquisitor said, and turned his gaze toward the sky. He could see the rift in the distance, swirling in the dark sky like the breach in their own world. "There. Let's go."


	12. Fear

Aldaron wasn't sure what he had expected the Fade to be like, but it probably wasn't this. And he certainly hadn't expected to find the Divine there. No, not the Divine, she was dead, but a spirit that had taken her form? Like Cole? Aldaron didn't understand what she was, nor did it matter to him as long as she continued helping them.

It was actually a relief to learn that he had not been sent by Andraste or the Maker or even one of his own gods. He'd done this by himself, to himself. The thought was simultaneously comforting and terrifying. Perhaps part of him had wanted to believe that there was some higher purpose behind everything that had happened to him since the conclave. But no, it had all been nothing but terribly bad luck.

Any sort of comfort he felt, though, was dampened by the gravity and horror of the current situation. For all intents and purposes they were trapped. Trapped in the Fade and at the mercy of an incredibly powerful demon.

The only thing that Aldaron could hope for was that he wouldn't remember most of this later, but he knew that was unlikely. This was not the sort of experience that memory blurred in time. Aldaron would not be that lucky. He kept going by not thinking about where they were, or what was happening, or anything really. Cole's fear was palpable and he wondered how this must feel to someone like him. Not quite human and not quite spirit but something in between. Aldaron could only imagine that the fear, the wrongness of this place and everything in it, were worse for him than it was for any of the others. For that reason Aldaron could not let his own panic consume him. He had to stay strong and get Cole and Dorian and all of them out of here. He pushed the fear down, pushed all his emotions aside, though it was harder now than it had ever been before, and thought of nothing except getting out of here. If he faltered for one moment he would break and he would not be able to continue.

The demon, the Nightmare, taunted them constantly, and no matter how hard he tried Aldaron kept hearing the same words over and over in his head.

"Some foolish little boy come to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders. You think that pain will make you stronger? The only one who grows stronger from your fear is me."

And it was true, wasn't it? He was just a foolish little boy. Walking through life pretending that he wasn't frightened; as though if he pretended hard enough someday it would be true. But it wasn't working. He wasn't any braver than he had been at Haven. He was still just a frightened child muddling his way through this and praying desperately that no one noticed.

"Number one rule of the Fade," Dorian's voice broke through his thoughts, the man suddenly beside him as they picked their way along the rocky ground, "Is don't believe anything a demon says. It's all lies and manipulation."

Aldaron looked over at him and Dorian didn't look frightened at all. How was that possible? How could he not be scared? Because he was a mage? He'd been to the Fade before, though not physically, and faced demons here before. Aldaron's only experience with demons was with the ones that came out of rifts, and they never talked.

The Inquisitor didn't reply, didn't trust his voice at the moment, just nodded and tried once more to put the Nightmare's words out of his mind. Lies. Manipulation. It wasn't true.

Except it was.

He shook his head and quickened his steps. Don't think about it. Just keep moving forward. Get out of the Fade, and then it won't matter.

But the Nightmare was there at the rift, unable to get through on its own but blocking their way forward. It was the most horrifying thing that Aldaron had ever seen. As soon as he laid eyes on its massive, grotesque form the elf wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide. Or vomit. Maybe both.

As he was trying to regain enough of his courage to even consider attacking that thing the spirit of the Divine glided forward, offered parting words that he almost did not hear, and flew straight for the Nightmare. Whether she intended to attack it or merely provide enough of a distraction for them to get past it didn't matter. There were other demons though, lesser fears and terrors. Even with the Nightmare out of the way there was no clear path to the rift. They would have to fight.

* * *

><p>Dorian stumbled as he came out of the rift, hitting the ground harder than anticipated. He had to throw an arm out to the side to keep his balance, but managed to make himself not look too clumsy. He had emerged exactly where expected, in Adamant's inner courtyard, and took a moment to assess the situation there. Escaping the Fade hardly meant they were out of danger; the fortress had been crawling with demons when they left. There were no signs of demons now, however, though the courtyard was full of soldiers, all now staring at Dorian, Cole, and Blackwall in shock. Well, they had just walked out of the Fade; Dorian was rather shocked about it himself.<p>

Assured that there was no immediate danger on this side, Dorian's mind turned back to threat he'd just escaped. He spun around and looked up at the rift, expecting Stroud and Hawke and Aldaron to come tumbling out of it any moment.

Any second now.

But the moment stretched on and they didn't come. Dorian waited and stared and the moment turned into an eternity as panic began to creep up his spine and clutch at his heart.

Where was he? Where was he?

No no no no no.

Not like this. Not now. Dorian had only had him for a few weeks, and he hadn't even properly understood what was right in front of him.

Please don't take him away this soon. Dorian hadn't even told him…

Maker knew why someone like Aldaron would want anything to do with someone like Dorian. Not that Dorian wasn't amazing in his own way, but no one could compare to the Herald of Andraste. Dorian had been in awe of him since the attack on Haven, possibly before that. But what could such a glorious creature see in someone like him? The Inquisitor was dazzling. Tireless, compassionate, fearless – no, not entirely fearless, but unafraid in the face of the impossible and terrified of the mundane. But also so full of doubt, so uncertain when there was no reason to be. An elf: Herald of Andraste and leader of what was quickly becoming the most powerful military and political organization in Thedas. Pride, he realized suddenly, he was proud of his lover and all that Aldaron had accomplished in such a short time.

Dorian wanted to tell Aldaron how amazing he was, but the words always stuck in his throat. He was unused to sentiment, uncomfortable expressing the depth of his emotions, petrified of the depth of his emotions.

And now he might never have the chance.

How had he fallen so far, so hard, so fast?

Aldaron might not walk out of the Fade this time. Dorian had let opportunity after opportunity slip through his fingers. Unbidden, the last picture he had of Aldaron came to his mind, the glance over his shoulder before leaping through the rift. Aldaron covered in the blood of his enemies, jaw set, hair wild, eyes black as the void, knuckles white on the hilts of his daggers, green glow around one hand. Put that on the cover of Varric's next book, that's what a hero looked like.

And Dorian might never get to see him again.

The rift flickered and Dorian's heart nearly stopped. Then Hawke tumbled out, nearly falling over when his feet hit solid ground.

And then there he was. The Inquisitor walked out of the Fade and made it look as easy as a stroll in the park. He was bloody and grim faced and the most perfect thing that Dorian had ever seen. He held his hand up and the rift closed with a snap. Dorian took two steps forward before he was able to stop himself. Don't make a scene. Not here. Not in front of all these people. But he was so relieved that he might cry, and yet terrified that he might be hallucinating - still trapped in some demon's illusion. He wanted to reach out and touch and hold and kiss and reassure himself that Aldaron was alive and whole, but now was not the time. Dorian forced himself to stay put, tense, exhausted and yet thrumming with energy. It was all he could do not to run up to Aldaron and sweep the elf into his arms and never let him go ever again. Somehow he managed.

Belatedly Dorian realized that someone was missing. Warden Stroud had not come out of the Fade and yet the Inquisitor had already closed the rift.

"Inquisitor," It was one of the Inquisition soldiers, running up to give a report as though the Inquisitor hadn't just done the impossible. Well, the impossible was becoming expected where their Herald was involved. "The archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared. The Venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself. As for the Wardens, those who weren't corrupted helped us fight the demons."

"We stand ready to help make up for Clarel's… tragic mistake," one of the Wardens spoke up, but whether he actually had the authority to make such promises Dorian had no idea. "Where is Stroud?"

That was the question of the hour. What had happened in there after he turned his back? Why had it taken so long for Aldaron to follow? "He didn't make it," the Inquisitor answered, voice and expression flat, emotionless. Dorian frowned. That didn't sound like the Aldaron he knew. That was the voice he used when passing judgment, when talking to diplomats that he didn't like. Dorian hated that voice.

The rest of the conversation Dorian barely listened to. A lot of talk about Grey Wardens and he really didn't care. He was more concerned about his lover and what had caused him to throw all of his walls up again and shut himself off from the world. Well, everything that had happened in the Fade, probably, but Dorian got the distinct feeling there was something he'd missed. Something important had happened in that short and yet impossibly long moment that they had been apart.

"Aldaron," he said when it seemed all the business was dealt with. The Inquisitor startled at hearing his name and looked over at Dorian as though noticing him for the first time. His face was still carefully blank, betraying nothing of what he felt. It was rather unnerving. "Are you alright?" Dorian asked and somehow managed to affect an almost casual tone in his question.

Aldaron stared at him for a long moment, and then simply nodded his head. "I'm fine," he said simply. "I have to find Cullen." And with that the Inquisitor brushed past him and disappeared into the crowd. There was no reassuring smile like Dorian usually received after a fight, no comforting words, no casual touch as the elf walked past, nothing.

It really shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

* * *

><p>The Inquisitor had disappeared so quickly it was as though by magic. Not to a tree- or wall-top as usual where Dorian might find him and ask what was wrong, but to actual Inquisition business. He was holed up in a tent somewhere with Cullen and Leliana recounting in minute detail what had happened during their little jaunt into the Fade. At least that was the word around camp when Dorian finally trudged off the battlefield filthy, exhausted, and more than a little annoyed.<p>

He found the tent – their make-shift war room – and could occasionally hear voices within when they raised enough. Cullen, Leliana, Hawke, but not Aldaron. Dorian realized that the Inquisitor was probably still locked up in that little emotionless bubble that he withdrew into sometimes and was so very difficult to get him out of.

"I wouldn't risk it," Sera warned, much to Dorian's surprise, when she caught him staring at the tent as though he wanted to set it on fire (the idea had crossed his mind). "Went in there all scary Inquisitor-face. No fun like that. As like t' stab you as t' kiss you."

"What?" Dorian squawked, too tired to managed to hide his surprise at her last comment, and quick to try and play it off. "I— What are you talking about?"

"What?" the girl parroted and stared at him cluelessly, "Everyone knows you 'n him are havin' it on. Snoggin' in the library an' all that mush. Whatever, though, that's your business. I'm just sayin': don't go in there if y' wanna keep all your bits."

"I…" there weren't many things that could render Dorian Pavus speechless, but learning that his relationship with the Inquisitor was apparently common knowledge – who exactly did Sera consider 'everyone'? – was definitely one of those things. He'd tried to be as discrete as possible, and thought he was doing a good job. They barely touched in public, and had only kissed in the library one time. But despite all of his efforts was it still that obvious? "… Thank you?" he eventually finished, voice coming out much weaker than he would have liked.

Sera merely shrugged and walked away. Dorian took another look back at the tent and decided that he probably didn't want to deal with whatever was going on in there anyway. Aldaron would have to come out eventually. And Dorian really needed a change of clothes, so he turned away reluctantly and went off to find his own tent. Maker he couldn't wait to get back to Skyhold and have a bath. Who ever thought camping was a good idea?

Several hours later Dorian was in his tent, as cleaned up as was possible, examining his probably-ruined robes and wondering if Fade mud washed out. Was mud in the Fade different from regular mud? Just as he was deciding to ask Aldaron for new robes regardless – it was partly his fault they were ruined after all - there was suddenly movement at the tent opening. He looked over in time to see the subject of his thoughts duck inside. The Inquisitor had removed his armor, stripped down to shirtsleeves, and he looked absolutely exhausted.

Dorian barely had a chance to open his mouth for a greeting before he suddenly found himself with a lap full of elf and Aldaron was kissing him with a desperation Dorian had never felt before. It was shocking, but intoxicating – impossible not to respond to. His body reacted immediately, before his mind even registered what was happening, arms wrapping around Aldaron's waist as the elf pressed closer to him. When his brain finally caught up with his body, however, he realized that this was incredibly odd behavior for his lover, who had been almost afraid to touch him before.

With no insignificant amount of effort Dorian pulled away from the kiss. "Aldaron what are-?"

"Don't," the elf cut him off, pressed his face into the crook of Dorian's shoulder before the man could get a good look at his face. "Please just-," he sighed, breath hot against the bare skin on Dorian's shoulder. "I need-." He couldn't seem to finish a single thought, at least not in words. But the press of his lips against Dorian's skin, the roll of his hips, spoke volumes.

A better man probably would have pushed him away. The Inquisitor was clearly not himself. Most likely riding high on lingering adrenaline and whatever raw emotions their experience in the Fade had brought to bear. A better man would probably have pulled away and made the Inquisitor talk through his problems instead of drowning them.

Dorian was not that man. And Dorian probably needed this almost as much as Aldaron. To feel his lover's body warm and solid and undeniably real and alive after what they had been through.

So Dorian didn't push him away, he tilted Aldaron's face up toward him again and kissed him hungrily. Aldaron sighed against his lips and returned the kiss with equal fervor, clutching at him, pressing closer and rolling his hips in away that drew a soft moan from the man beneath him. Hands pulled at clothing, fumbling with buttons and buckles to get at the bare skin beneath. Shirts cast aside carelessly the pair tumbled onto Dorian's bedroll in a tangle of limbs. Their lips only parted in order to breath, and for Dorian to press open-mouthed kisses to the underside of Aldaron's jaw, his neck, his shoulders. He reveled in the soft sighs of pleasure that escaped the elf's mouth, didn't even care about the hands mussing his hair. There were already bruises beginning to form on Aldaron's arms, Dorian realized somewhere in the back of his mind, the marks of dozens of vanquished foes and a terrifying reminder that thought the Inquisitor did the impossible he was not impervious to harm.

"Dorian…" Aldaron sighed as the man sucked a much more pleasant bruise onto his collar. His hands trailed down, down, brushed along the top of Dorian's pants in an echo of his usual timidity. It was the only encouragement Dorian needed, not that he needed much in the first place, to bring his own hands down and quickly undo the ties that held Aldaron's breeches on. Pants and smallclothes were both gone in one smooth moment and then their lips met again as two pairs of hands made equally fast work of Dorian's remaining clothing.

All barriers between them cast side, Aldaron pressed up against Dorian, pulled the man closer to him. Both men moaned softly as their hips pressed together, skin sliding against skin for the first time. Aldaron hitched a leg up over Dorian's hip to hold him close, breathing out his name in a barely audible moan.

The elf was a lot stronger than he looked. Of course, with all his clothes on Aldaron didn't look like much at all; as thin as a twig and just as easily breakable. But underneath he was solid as a rock. Compact and lithe but everywhere that Dorian touched as he ran his hands over chest and stomach and thighs was firm and strong. His hands and leg easily held Dorian in place as they moved together, not that Dorian was inclined to pull away. At least he didn't pull away farther than it took to slip a hand between their bodies to wrap around both of them. The first stroke brought a gasp and a moan from Aldaron's lips. They moved together desperately, all sweat-slicked skin and grasping hands and open-mouthed kisses. Aldaron's breathing became more ragged, his moans louder and stifled against Dorian's lips and neck. The mage wasn't in a much better state, if he were completely honest with himself. They finished only moments apart and collapsed, panting in a tangle of limbs.

He must have dozed off because the next thing Dorian was aware of was waking up because it was cold and there was no lithe elven body wrapped around his to keep him warm. He opened his eyes and looked around the tent blearily. He shouldn't be upset or concerned about waking up alone, it's what he was used to, but Dorian was concerned. Because Aldaron wasn't like all of his previous lovers and if he wasn't here then something was wrong.

Shivering, Dorian propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at the interior of the tent when there was barely any light to see by. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he spotted the shadowy figure by the tent flap. Aldaron had dressed in just his pants and was sitting on the ground by the front of the tent, holding the flap open just enough to look out. He didn't look like he was about to bolt, but then what was he doing over there and not at Dorian's side?

"Amatus?" the man asked quietly, "What are you doing up?" It was the middle of the night judging by the stars he could see.

Aldaron turned his head slowly to look back at Dorian. It was too dark to make out his expression. "I can't sleep," the elf murmured, voice barely a whisper.

Dorian frowned and sat up slowly, "What's wrong?" he asked.

"They say when we dream our minds are in the Fade," Aldaron said breathlessly, voice trembling. Dorian wasn't sure where he was going with this, so he stayed silent and waited for him to continue. "At first I was afraid that we didn't make it out after all, that this was all an illusion… But it's not. We're here. And I…" his voice cracked, he stopped and swallowed heavily before continuing, "I don't want to go back there again. I can't-," his voice broke again and he buried his face in his hands to muffle a sob.

Dorian's body was moving before his mind was aware. All he knew was that suddenly he was by Aldaron's side and reaching out to him, a hand on his lover's shoulder but uncertain how to offer comfort.

"I can't do this, Dorian," Aldaron whimpered, words tight in the back of his throat, choked out through tears, "I'm not— I'm not a leader. I don't know what I'm doing, but everyone…" his breath was coming in ragged gasps now, he swiped furiously at the tears on his cheeks but they kept coming. Dorian didn't know what to do, he just sat close to him, rubbed his back in what he hoped was a soothing way, and listened. "Everyone trusts me, like I know best. I don't know anything. More good people are going to die and it's going to be my fault. Just like… just like…"

"Stroud's death was not your fault," Dorian insisted softly when Aldaron choked on the words, unable to get them out. It was a bad situation that couldn't possibly have had a good outcome; it was a miracle any of them made it out alive.

"It was!" Aldaron wailed, raising red, tearstained eyes to Dorian's face, close enough now that he could see properly even in the dim light. He was an absolute mess, cheeks lined with tears and eyes rimmed red – how long had he been crying? It was heartbreaking. "Someone had to cover our backs. They both volunteered, they made me choose! But how could I-? I chose at random, Dorian! I left a man to die because his name was the first one that came to mind!" That seemed to be the breaking point. Aldaron collapsed into Dorian's chest, fingers clutching at anything they could hold onto, digging in hard enough to bruise, tears hot against his bare skin.

It was then that Dorian first realized the full magnitude of the pressure constantly on the Inquisitor's shoulders. Aldaron shrugged it off most of the time, but the decisions he made daily put lives at risk. Here was a man barely out of his boyhood, who had never before spared a thought for politics, who never before had anything more pressing to worry about than where the next meal came from, who was happiest climbing trees and picking herbs. Then someone had laid the fate of the entire world in his hands like some priceless statue and said 'make sure you don't break this' before pushing him off a cliff.

"Amatus…" Dorian murmured, wrapping his arms around his lover's trembling shoulders. How could he possibly hope to say anything that would matter at this point? Dorian wasn't any good at dealing with real emotions. He found the solution to all of his problems at the bottom of a bottle of wine or in someone else's bed, and he had never really cared about anyone else's problems before. This was different, though. This time he did care; far too much, in fact. His heart ached as Aldaron gasped and sobbed and clung to him. "It's not your fault," he said, but the words felt hollow, meaningless. All the books he'd read, all the fancy words he knew, Dorian couldn't think of a single thing that would make this better. "You did everything you could. No one blames you, amatus."

Aldaron did not reply, but Dorian was certain he was past the point where speech was an option. The elf could barely breathe. Carefully, Dorian pulled him back toward the bedroll and lay down, holding Aldaron to his chest. He murmured meaningless things - endearments, reassurances – and rubbed his lover's back gently until his breathing calmed. Aldaron did fall asleep eventually, exhausted both emotionally and physically. Dorian held him close the whole time, staring up at the tent ceiling and feeling utterly useless.

He didn't fall asleep himself until much later.


	13. Sleepless

When Dorian woke the next morning light was streaming in through the seams of the tent and he was alone again. There was no sign of Aldaron anywhere, even his boots were gone. Dorian was not particularly surprised, but he was a little concerned. The Inquisitor had not been himself the night before, to say the very least. The spot beside him on the bedroll was as cold as though Aldaron had never been there. How long had he been gone?

Worry gnawing at the back of his mind, Dorian rose from the bedroll and began getting ready for the day ahead. He dressed in the only set of clean robes he had – and even these were dusty from travel, but at least they weren't covered in blood – and ensured that his hair and moustache were in perfect order before gathering up his staff and leaving the tent.

By that point he'd managed to convince himself that he was worrying about nothing. For all he knew the Inquisitor had run off to early morning war council and politely left Dorian to his beauty sleep. But as he found himself something to eat and listened to the idle gossip of soldiers and servants packing up supplies it became apparent that was not the case.

So then, if he were the Inquisitor where would he be? No trees out here in the desert, so he would likely go for the highest most isolated place in the area. Not a lot of isolation available out here, either, with people still running around like chickens with their heads cut off. The walls, then; where Aldaron had been pacing before the assault. When Dorian had been assuring him that nothing would go wrong before everything went absolutely as wrong as possible. In hindsight he felt like a bit of an ass, but who could have predicted they would fall physically into the Fade. Perhaps that was why he felt so responsible for trying to heal Aldaron's pain.

It certainly wasn't because he had feelings for the elf. Certainly not because he was in love or anything of the sort. That was preposterous.

"You're becoming shockingly predictable," Dorian commented as he reached the wall top. Aldaron startled so badly at the sound of his voice that the elf almost physically jumped and spun around quickly to face him, hands already reaching for the daggers at his back before he recognized Dorian and managed to stop himself. The reaction was so dramatic that Dorian very nearly threw a barrier up between them. "Kaffas," he breathed a sigh of relief when Aldaron stopped, "It's only me."

"You startled me," Aldaron said. His eyes were wide, with dark circles underneath as he slowly relaxed and lowered his hands.

"Evidently," Dorian replied, and took in the elf's appearance for a moment. He looked just as exhausted as he had the night before. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Yes," Aldaron replied, though he looked away and would not meet Dorian's eyes when he answered.

Of course he had, Dorian had seen him fall asleep, but that wasn't really what he was asking. "Did you sleep more than an hour?" Aldaron did not reply, but his silence was answer enough. Dorian sighed. He was concerned that Aldaron hadn't been able to sleep, but he didn't know what to do about it.

"You don't understand," Aldaron said quietly. "I don't want… I can't go back there."

"To the Fade?" Dorian asked. He remembered what Aldaron had said the night before. Was he afraid to fall asleep? "Amatus, dreams can't hurt you. They're not real."

"I know that!" the Inquisitor snapped suddenly, startling Dorian with his outburst. Then just as quickly he quieted down and shied away, murmuring a soft "I'm sorry."

"You're exhausted," Dorian said, easily forgiving the outburst this time. Aldaron was still shaken by what had happened to them, he would have to choose his words carefully. "You need to rest."

"I can't," the elf stressed again, and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "We're heading back to Skyhold today," he mumbled, an attempt to change the subject that Dorian saw through immediately.

"Are you going to be able to ride without falling asleep and falling off your horse?" Dorian asked, a little more accusatory than he really meant. This wasn't going at all the direction he had intended.

Aldaron frowned, his brow furrowed, "I'm fine," he insisted.

"Fine?" Dorian asked incredulously. "That display last night and you expect me to believe you're fine?"

"What do you want me to say, Dorian?" Aldaron growled – actually growled – in frustration. "That I'm too scared to go to sleep? Scared the moment I close my eyes I'll be right back there with that _thing_ and I'll have to watch Stroud die all over again? Do you want to hear that I've been up here for hours trying to think about anything else, but I can't? I keep seeing it over and over even when I'm awake, so how much worse is it bound to be if I go to sleep? Is that what you want to hear?" As he ranted Aldaron's voice rose in pitch as he worked himself up nearly into the panic of the night before.

"I want to help, Aldaron," Dorian said, trying to sound calm and reassuring and not feeling entirely successful. Maker, he had no idea how he was supposed to help his lover, but he wanted to. He wanted to do anything he could to make Aldaron feel safe and secure again.

"You can't… Nobody can," Aldaron's voice did soften, but in despair rather than calm. "You… You laugh about demons trying to possess you. You're not afraid. You couldn't possibly understand."

Did he truly think that Dorian wasn't ever afraid? Certainly their ordeal hadn't effected him as badly as it had Aldaron, but he'd been plenty afraid. "Then help me understand," the man said earnestly. He took a step forward to close the space between them and reached out to cup the elf's face gently. "I want to help. Please don't shut me out like you do everyone else."

Aldaron shook his head slightly, but didn't pull away. Given how unstable his mood seemed to be, Dorian took that as a small victory. "They can't know… What would they think of me?"

"No one expects you to be perfect, amatus," Dorian murmured. "You're doing the best you can."

"And it's still not good enough," the elf replied bitterly.

"It's more than good enough," Dorian insisted. "You're mad if you think anyone could do better. Look how many people you've helped, how many people you've saved."

"And how many people I've sent to their deaths."

Aldaron would simply not allow himself to be comforted, Dorian thought in frustration. What had happened to give him such a low sense of self-worth? "They all knew it was possible going in," Dorian said. "Stroud, your soldiers, they all knew what they were signing up for. You can't save everyone, and no one is asking you to."

"I'm not cut out for leadership, Dorian," Aldaron whimpered.

"I disagree," Dorian said. "The people here, they adore you. I—," the words caught in his throat again and Dorian cursed himself. That was exactly what Aldaron needed to hear right now, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. So instead he just leaned down and pressed his lips against Aldaron's and tried to convey in actions all the words he couldn't bring himself to say. He wasn't thinking about how half the army could see them if they happened to look the right way, Aldaron's peace of mind was more important than some silly rumors. Besides, if certain people were to be believed then everyone already knew what was going on between them and nothing bad had come of it yet.

When they parted Aldaron was blushing a little bit and he didn't look like he was going to cry anymore. "Thank you…" he murmured softly, for what Dorian wasn't sure, but he let his hands fall away from Aldaron's face. "We really do need to leave, though. You should see that your things are packed."

"Of course," Dorian replied. "Although you should know my other robes are positively ruined. Demon blood is so hard to get out."

Aldaron smiled. The tiniest quirk of the corner of his mouth, there for only a second before it disappeared again. After all the fear and sadness the night before, however, the sight made Dorian's heart soar. "I'll buy you new ones," he promised softly.

* * *

><p>It took over a week to get back to Skyhold, the company's pace slowed to accommodate wounded soldiers and the caravans of supplies that followed the troops. The Inquisitor and his inner circle could probably have moved on ahead of the main force, but Aldaron was disinclined to do so.<p>

Since walking out of the Fade Aldaron had not slept for more than an hour or two any night. He was exhausted both physically and emotionally. Despite crawling into Dorian's tent each night to try and distract himself with strong arms and soft lips more often than not he found himself lying awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to Dorian's soft breathing in his ear until the sun began to leak in through the fabric. If he did manage to fall asleep it didn't last long. Nightmarish memories haunted his dreams: the dull greenish tint of everything in the Fade, the smell of sulfur and decay, a massive creature with too many legs and too many eyes – Stroud, lying dead and mangled in a new horrific way each night, if there was even anything of him left at all. He woke in a cold sweat, with a scream on his lips. The terrors had woken Dorian on more than one occasion, and the man was now sporting bruises caused by Aldaron's panicked flailing. As though he needed more things to feel guilty about.

Aldaron was glad to be back at Skyhold however. Here there were more things to distract himself with, work he could drown himself in to try and forget. And maybe a proper bed would help sleep come more easily.

The bed didn't help, nor the fact that he was alone in it. Aldaron woke in the middle of the night terrified and alone and he was halfway down the stairs before he realized he wasn't actually certain where Dorian's quarters were and that he probably shouldn't be running around the castle in nothing but his nightclothes anyway. Besides, Dorian would probably appreciate a night of uninterrupted sleep, and he was unlikely to get that as long as he shared a bed with Aldaron. At least until the nightmares stopped. Creators, he hoped they would stop. What would happen if they didn't? Dorian was right to worry; he couldn't go on like this for long, barely sleeping.

Bare feet cold on the stone floor, Aldaron trudged back up the stairs. He stood for a long moment staring at the bed, but knew he wouldn't be able to sleep again that night. Grabbing a blanket to wrap around himself against the chill from the balcony door he always left open Aldaron settled at his desk, lit a candle, and drowned himself in reports. He stayed there until the sun was up and managed to read through every scrap of paper that had piled up while he was away.

They would be serving breakfast in the main hall soon, but Aldaron did not have much of an appetite. Lately he'd been eating almost as infrequently as he slept. It was a bad combination, he knew that, but could not bring himself to care. Everything felt so hopeless and miserable now. He was so exhausted.

Eventually, when the sun had risen fully, Aldaron rose from his seat and forced himself to face the day. He dressed and attempted to make himself presentable. Although the Inquisitor had never been vain – did not care about the state of his hair or the fashion of his clothes – even he had to admit he didn't look good. There were dark circles under his eyes from a week of sleepless nights, unlikely to disappear any time soon. He couldn't hide those or wave away concerns for much longer before people stopped believing his excuses. Maybe there was a way to cover them up; some shemlen cosmetic like the noblewomen caked themselves in. The idea itself was repulsive, but the Inquisitor had to keep up appearances.

Dorian would probably know. The man always looked immaculate. Breakfast would be over by now, which meant the mage would probably be in the library. And Dorian thought he was predictable.

Aldaron combed through his hair with his fingers as he headed down from his tower room, taming the wild locks into some semblance of order before he emerged into the main hall. Forced smiles and polite greetings as he made his way across the hall, gone as soon as the door was shut behind him and he mounted the stairs up toward the library. And there he was, staring at the shelves with a frown and a look of deep concentration.

"Good morning," Aldaron greeted as he approached so as not to startle the man too badly.

"You have remarkably little here on early Tevinter history," Dorian said by way of a greeting. Aldaron had learned not to be offended when the man found his research more interesting than quite literally anything else in the world. When he got wrapped up in something Dorian could often think of little else. "All these 'gifts' to the Inquisition and the best they can do is the Malefica Imperio? Trite propaganda. But if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it." He sounded annoyed. Aldaron didn't spend a lot of time in the library (really any time at all unless he was talking to someone there), but he wasn't surprised to learn it was full of Chantry literature.

Unfamiliar with the library though he was, helping Dorian with his research sounded like a great way to keep his mind off of his troubles. "If I knew what you were looking for I could help," he offered.

"You?" Dorian looked over at him and very nearly sneered, "I rather doubt it." Aldaron actually took a step away in surprise, shocked that Dorian would say such a thing. So he didn't read much, or at all, but he'd never had need to before the Inquisition. And just because he wasn't a bookworm like Dorian didn't mean he couldn't help. Didn't mean he was stupid. Did Dorian think he was stupid? But the man seemed to realize what he'd done as soon as he saw the hurt lining Aldaron's face and he sighed, "I apologize, that was unworthy." Somehow it didn't sound all that sincere, and Dorian was immediately turning back toward the shelves, mumbling to himself, "I did see something by Genitivi here? I could have sworn…"

It was about as clear a dismissal as Aldaron had ever gotten, and the elf found himself rather offended. If Dorian didn't want his help he could just say so. There was no need to brush him off like he was some sort of illiterate savage. He got enough of that from the nobles he had to deal with; he didn't need it from his lover as well. "What is this about Dorian?"

Dorian sighed again and his shoulders slumped. "When we fell into the chasm, into the Fade… I thought you were done for," he said, and closed his eyes as he took in a steadying breath, "I don't know if I can forgive you for that moment."

"Forgive me?" Aldaron asked, still annoyed by the man's early words so that he didn't quite grasp the weight of these. "You were right there with me the entire time."

"For making me think you were dead!" Dorian snapped and rounded on him. But as soon as he was looking at Aldaron the anger bled out of him. "You sent me ahead and then didn't follow. For just a moment, I was certain you wouldn't. I thought: 'This is it. This is where I finally lose him forever'. Are you… alright?"

Dorian had to have asked him that a dozen times by now, but Aldaron always dodged the question. He didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to remember. He'd been so wrapped up in his own grief and fear that he didn't stop to think about Dorian. He had never asked how Dorian was feeling, if Dorian was alright. He had assumed, foolishly, that because the man didn't look upset that he was fine. Now he realized how much of a selfish idiot he had been. Aldaron's behavior over the past week – crawling to Dorian for comfort and distraction and never giving any in return – had been unfair to the man. He'd ignored him and snapped at him and used him and screamed and cried and through it all Dorian just kept asking if he was alright. When Aldaron realized he'd never given a straight answer he felt ashamed. Dorian only wanted to know he was safe, and Aldaron had been nothing but an ass to him.

"It…" he began quietly, hesitantly. Dorian deserved the truth, not Aldaron's insecurity translated into anger. "It was like walking in a nightmare, but everything was real. I couldn't…" His voice cracked and he stopped. He would not have another breakdown here in the library where so many other people could see it. He wasn't alright. He was so far from alright.

"Ah, it's as I thought," Dorian murmured, and his voice was gentle, sympathetic. "The Fade is an ordeal under normal circumstances. To be the only real thing there… Beyond description." So it had bothered him after all, that was reassuring in some small way. "That any of us made it out alive is difficult to believe. That _you_ made it out? A miracle. You do realize this feat hasn't been performed in over a thousand years?" Dorian continued as though he were giving a lecture instead of having a conversation. "Corypheus and his contemporaries entered the Fade and began the blights. In comparison…"

In comparison? Aldaron didn't want to be compared to Corypheus in any way. "That's not exactly comforting, Dorian," Aldaron said in dismay. Yes, he was glad they hadn't unleashed another endless plague upon the world, but that was a very low bar for judging success.

"Nor should it be," Dorian said seriously. "If you can walk in the Fade others will try to follow. Who knows what secrets Corypheus has revealed? Not everyone will be as lucky as you. What they could unleash…" he shook his head, dismissing the thought. It wasn't something Aldaron wanted to think of, either. Walking physically through the Fade had been bad enough, he didn't want to think of how much worse it could have been. "My advice? Keep this quiet. Let them speculate. Too many will see this as a challenge."

Aldaron nodded slowly, realizing that Dorian was right. "I agree." There were too many holes in the sky already.

"There are enough idiots in the world who think if they just use enough blood magic, their problems will vanish," Dorian said despairingly. "It's exactly the sort of thing I want to stop back home. This… this I don't need," he shook his head and turned back to the bookshelf he'd been perusing when Aldaron arrived. "What I do need is a copy of the Liberalum. I'll wager I can find Corypheus' real name. If I can prove he was a grasping ankle-biter with no family to speak of? The luster would come right off," he turned to flash a grin in Aldaron's direction, "Wish me luck."

"Are you certain you don't want any help?" Aldaron asked hopefully. Maybe he would be useless at it, but he needed something to do.

"I'm more than capable of handling my own research," Dorian replied not unkindly. "And I'm certain you have enough work of your own. I know how the reports pile up while you're away."

"I finished those already," Aldaron admitted.

"Already?" Dorian asked in surprise, and turned back to Aldaron, "How could you-," he cut himself off as realization dawned on him, "You didn't sleep." It was not a question, but Aldaron looked away and his silence was enough confirmation. "More nightmares?" Dorian asked, voice low and quiet, conscious of Aldaron's desire to keep this secret.

"Yes," the elf replied just as quietly.

Dorian sighed and Aldaron did not look up to see the concern he knew would be on his face. "Shall I come see you tonight? Would that help?"

Probably not, but Aldaron couldn't help but want it anyway just so he wouldn't have to wake up alone. But that wasn't fair to Dorian. The man didn't deserve all the sleepless nights, the bruises. "I've robbed you of enough sleep already."

"Not nearly as much as you've lost yourself, I think," Dorian replied. "But that isn't what I asked."

"I don't know," Aldaron admitted, looking everywhere but at Dorian's face. It was hard to admit even to his lover that he felt weak, lost, incapable. He was supposed to be strong, supposed to be a leader. Dorian's presence, while a comfort in the aftermath of a nightmare, had done nothing so far to keep them at bay. So why continue inflicting himself upon the man? "I don't know if anything will help."

"Have you considered speaking to Solas?" Dorian asked. "He is rather an expert on dreams. He might know some way to stop these nightmares."

"No," Aldaron said more fiercely than he had intended. "I don't want anyone else to know." It was bad enough that Dorian knew, and he trusted Dorian more than anyone else. The others… He was afraid of what they would think if they saw how frightened he had been, how frightened he still was. They would loose all respect for him, of that he was certain.

"Alright," Dorian said placatingly, "It was only a suggestion. You're welcome to stay here if you like, but I'm certain you'll find it terribly boring. Not nearly enough trees and small woodland creatures for you, I think."

It was rather painfully stuffy in here. Did none of these windows open? Aldaron considered inviting Dorian to do his research elsewhere, somewhere with sunlight and fresh air, but no, the man would just wind up running back and forth for new books every few minutes. "You're probably right," he was forced to admit.

"I'm always right," Dorian replied with a grin, "One of these days you'll figure that out."

* * *

><p>The Inquisitor did hang around for a little while. He fetched books and flipped through pages without appearing to read them, he yawned occasionally and looked out the window every few minutes like clockwork. Eventually Dorian had to say that he was more of a distraction than a help and politely shooed the elf out of the library, suggesting that he go check on all the rest of his followers or stab some practice dummies or climb a tree. Aldaron had rolled his eyes at that last suggestion and complained that he really didn't spend that much time in trees.<p>

"Yes, I only find you in one every other day when we're on the road, and every third when we're back here," Dorian had replied, with only mild exaggeration. "For someone who is clearly part squirrel you spend remarkably little time in trees."

The elf pouted a little, but left in a better mood than he had arrived, Dorian thought. He hoped someone else would have a task to occupy his wayward lover. And they must have, because Dorian didn't see the Inquisitor again until dinner. They ate, as usual, with several of the Inquisitor's closest companions and Aldaron's mood did seem much improved. He chatted, he smiled – the real one, crooked and beautiful – and Dorian was relieved. Maybe the fear was passing now that things were back to normal.

As normal as they ever got for the Inquisition, anyway.

But that didn't stop Dorian from letting himself into the Inquisitor's quarters later that evening and coaxing the skittish elf into bed. He might cost himself a few hours of sleep or another nasty bruise if Aldaron had a particularly violent nightmare, but he would rather be here than make Aldaron face that nightmare alone.

* * *

><p>Dorian was awoken by a sharp pain in his ribs and a scream in his ear. He bolted upright, instinctively looking for the danger before his mind was even properly aware of his surroundings. When he came fully awake it took only a second for him to react. "Aldaron," he breathed, and turned toward the man beside him, tangled in the sheets and face twisted in agony. The elf was still asleep, struggling against imaginary demons he could not escape. "Amatus," he said, louder this time, and reached out for him. Aldaron flung out an arm that nearly hit Dorian in the face. He grabbed both of the elf's wrists and pinned them to the mattress in an attempt to subdue his flailing. "Aldaron," he called, and then again louder, "Aldaron." With his arms restrained, the elf kicked ineffectively, legs too tangled in the sheets to do any real harm. "Amatus, wake up," Dorian called desperately. "Aldaron!"<p>

The elf jolted awake with a gasping cry and struggled a moment more against the hands restraining him until his wide eyes were able to focus on Dorian's face and he fell slack, panting heavily.

"It's alright," Dorian murmured, slowly releasing Aldaron's arms and relaxing. "You're alright. Just a dream." His own heart was thundering in his chest, tight with concern and adrenaline. The Inquisitor was a ferocious fighter, even in his sleep.

Aldaron's breathing slowly grew steadier and his eyes never left Dorian's face. "Dorian," he breathed his name like a prayer.

"I'm here," the mage replied. "You're safe."

"Dorian," Aldaron breathed again, his voice more choked this time. His brows knit upward and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Then he rolled onto his side and covered his face with his hands, pulling his knees up toward his chest.

Despite having dealt with this nearly every night since they walked out of the Fade, Dorian felt no better equipped to deal with it. He lay down again, facing his lover, and reached out to hold him as best he could when Aldaron was curled in on himself like this. He stroked the elf's hair softly, combing out the ever-present tangles with his fingers.

"I just want it to stop," Aldaron choked out in a whisper after simply laying there in silence for a while. His voice was thick with tears, but Dorian couldn't tell if he was actually crying or not. "I'm so tired, Dorian."

"I know," Dorian replied. He wanted it to stop as well. They couldn't go on like this. Aldaron couldn't go on like this. The stress, the fear, the sleepless nights. How long could he function like this before his body simply gave out? He'd been too optimistic at dinner. He'd told Aldaron to go distract himself and it had worked for a while, but now here they were again, right back where they started.

Eventually Aldaron uncurled himself, wiped at his eyes and let Dorian pull him close again. "I'm sorry," he whispered softly. "Did I hurt you again?"

Dorian would probably have a bruise in the morning, Aldaron's elbows were rather lethal, and so he couldn't deny it. "I've had worse, I'm sure," he said instead, trying to brush it off.

"I'm sorry," Aldaron murmured again, "You shouldn't have to put up with me… I've been such an ass to you lately."

"What?" Dorian asked, honestly confused. When had Aldaron been an ass? Certainly no time that Dorian could remember. His behavior over the past week and a half had been confusing and distressing, but never cruel. "Nonsense. You've been a delight."

"You don't have to lie to me," Aldaron insisted. "I know I've been miserable, and I've taken it all out on you. It's not fair… I'm sorry."

"Amatus…" Dorian sighed softly. He supposed he could have turned the elf away when he crawled into his tent that first night, but he hadn't wanted to. Not that night or any of the ones following it regardless of the disruptions to his sleep, of the inadequacy he felt trying to comfort Aldaron. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be." This was where he needed to be, and he found he didn't even particularly care anymore if other people knew about them. He only wished he could actually do something to help.

"Thank you," Aldaron breathed, and held him tighter.


End file.
